Deal with the Devil
by woolgatherer
Summary: Rachel makes a deal with the Joker and realizes that she’s in over her head. Will she fall under the Joker’s spell and sacrifice Batman’s identity for the good of all? Or will she protect Bruce and suffer the consequences? Pre TDK. R&R please!
1. Found

**Author's Preface**: This takes place between the end of Batman Begins and the beginning of The Dark Knight, which means that, at this point, no one knows who the Joker is. Well, at least none of the main characters do. The plot, by the time it catches up with TDK, won't really follow the movie plot. At all, probably. So, yeah, don't expect a regurgitation of movie quotes from this story.  
As for what you can expect, I don't really like straight-out simple pairings, so this will be a Bruce/Batman/Rachel/Joker fic. And who knows who will end up with who? (No, really, who knows? I don't, not yet.)  
Anyway, I think that's all you need to know. So, read. And if you enjoy, review? Please? (Even if you don't like it, please tell me what I'm doing wrong.) Thanks! (:

&

Rachel really wanted to slap Bruce.

She clutched the newspaper tightly in her fist, fuming. The clicking of her shoes echoed sharply along the close, tall walls of the dark streets. Most of the lights in the overlooking apartments were off at this hour, and she could feel her absolute solitude like a physical presence. So much the better. She wasn't sure what she would have done if she'd encountered someone in the streets. Probably something she'd soon regret.

She could still hear their argument echoing in her mind.

_"Rachel."_

_She spun around, her arms crossed defensively in front of her. "What?"_

_Bruce clenched his jaw, set off by her anger. "What do you want from me? I'm just trying to do the right thing—"_

_"You mean getting yourself killed?" Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she held them back stubbornly. She held out the newspaper. "What do you call this?"_

_He looked at it, not moving to take it. He knew what the article said. "A close call," he said, his voice tight._

_"A close—" She stood back. It was suddenly painfully clear to her: Bruce was never going to let go of Batman. Not even for her. "Fine," she said, defeated. "Fine then. Waste your life."_

_"It's not a waste," he said, his voice rising. "At least I'm _doing_ something about the evil in this city."_

_That was too much. She shook her head. "Goodbye, Bruce."_

_"Rachel—"_

_But she was already out the door._

She'd made her choice, he'd made his. That was it. She was shutting the door to that part of her life. If he wanted to keep being an idiot, let him. He didn't see—wouldn't see—that with each criminal he captured, ten more appeared in his place. There was no stopping the hydra. She wouldn't have anything more to do with his misguided plan.

But even as she decided this, her heart twinged. Bruce, her oldest friend, her first—

She turned the corner onto her apartment's street. A man lay completely still on the pavement. A dark pool of blood radiated out from his body.

"Oh God," Rachel whispered, rushing forward. White noise swallowed her thoughts. She skirted around the blood, but there was no avoiding it: it covered the sidewalk like velvet. Bending down near his head, she placed two fingers on his throat. His pulse was strong and insistent. Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. Gotham had seen enough deaths for a lifetime.

Calmer now that she knew he was alive, Rachel knelt down next to him, careful to keep her knees out of his blood. His head rested at an awkward angle, tilted away from her. Hesitantly, Rachel reached out, her fingers resting lightly on his jaw, and turned his face toward the light.

She couldn't hold back her shocked gasp. The bruises weren't even the worst of it. It was the scars that held her attention. Her stomach clenched, and she leaned away, keeping her lips pressed tightly together, waiting for the nausea to pass. Puckered, angry-red scars marred his face. Even unconscious, he grinned up at her sardonically. Who would do this to a person? Rachel reached a hand out to brush a few strands of stringy hair away from his forehead.

The man's eyes snapped open, and his hand closed bruisingly around her wrist. With practiced ease, he twisted it, wrenching her to one side. His breaths were ragged, heavy, his eyes burned feverish in the dim light.

"It's all right," she gasped. "I—I want to help you."

The man's eyes narrowed, watching her.

She didn't dare move. For someone who lay in a pool of his own blood, his grip was surprisingly strong. "It's okay," she urged quietly.

He blinked a few times, eyes slowly focusing on her. His grip never relaxed.

"Were you shot?" she asked. It was so dark… she couldn't see any wounds on him, but that didn't mean anything. She didn't wait for his answer. Shaking her hand free from his grip, she fished frantically through her purse. Where was her cell phone when she needed it? Well, wherever it was, it certainly wasn't in her bag. Rachel ran a hand through her hair. She had to call the hospital, but to do that, she would have to go up to her apartment, and she couldn't just leave him out there on the street. What if whoever it was that did this to him came back to finish the job?

"All right," she said slowly, deciding. "All right, can you stand?"

He raised his eyebrows, but nodded wordlessly.

Rachel gripped his wrist, pulling his arm over his shoulder and doing her best to support him. He staggered the first few steps, but with each step they took, he stood straighter, limped less. By the time they'd reached her apartment door, he was standing on his own.

She raced to the phone, her hands shaking. Wherever her fingers touched, they left smeared red prints. She dialed the last 'one' and held the phone to her ear, doing her best to slow down her frantic breaths. But all she heard was dial tone. Rachel took the phone away from her ear, looking down at it, confused.

That was when she noticed that he was leaning heavily against the counter in front of her. One bloody finger pressed down on the phone's hook.

"What are you doing?" She hated how her voice squeaked at the end, but she was just now beginning to realize that maybe it wasn't such a good idea taking a complete stranger up to her apartment.

"There's no need for an ambulance." His voice was rough, but strangely high-pitched. He sounded completely calm.

Rachel stared at him, raising her eyebrows impatiently. She couldn't show him just how shaken she really was. "You're bleeding on my floor," she said. "I'd say that's a pretty good indication that you need help." Without giving him a chance to argue, she pushed his hand away from the phone, dialing the nine before he slammed the phone away from her hand. Her heart was beating ridiculously fast. "What—"

"I _said_ not to call." He clenched his side tightly, and Rachel noticed for the first time how pale he was, saw the faint sheen of sweat that made his face shine. He was in pain, that much was obvious, no matter how he might try to hide it.

"Why not?"

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I don't have insurance."

What, did he think this was a joke? "You might die," she sputtered. _Men, always trying to act tough…_ She tried not to think of Bruce, failed.

"From this?" He let out a forced laugh, but looked like he regretted it when a fresh gush of blood escaped from between his fingers. "Listen, girl, if you want to help, you'll get me a needle and some thread."

"What?" Everything had started buzzing around her, the lights seemed further away, the ground tilted beneath her. "You can't be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" he said. "I've already had some experience. See?" And then he grinned. His scars bunched and puckered horribly.

Rachel couldn't look at anything but his blood-red smile. Just thinking about what he would do with the needle… she placed a steadying hand on the counter.

"Needle," the man said quietly, prompting her. "Thread."

Rachel met his eyes. His head hung forward slightly, and he stared up at her from beneath lowered brows. If he didn't look so crazed and bloody, he might have looked innocent. At the moment, though, he looked like a bull readying himself for the charge, a predator readying himself for the kill. She closed her eyes, just to get rid of the creepy feeling he gave her, and clenched her jaw. "All right."

She skirted around him, focusing on the bathroom door down the hall. Behind her, she heard his lurching footsteps. Hotels always left an emergency sewing kit in her room, one of those small cardboard deals, and Rachel always took them. She had a few in her medicine cabinet, and she took one out now.

He took it from her hands before she offered it, slipping the needle out and handing it back to her. "Sterilize it."

"What?" It was so sharp. She held the needle gingerly, as if it might impale her if she weren't careful.

"Ster—" He snatched the needle back from her, swearing impatiently under his breath. "For fuck's sake." One hand still holding his side tightly, he stumbled off down the hall, back to the kitchen. Rachel followed him, worried what he would do next; what if he went for her knives?

But he stepped in front of the stove, turning the flame on full blast, and held the needle directly into the flame. After a few seconds, he turned the stove off and pushed her aside, lurching back to the bathroom.

She called after him weakly. "I think I should call the hospital."

He stopped, snapped his head around to glare at her. "You even think of doing that, and I will rip the cord out of the wall." He didn't wait to see how she reacted to this, but continued into the light bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, he undid the buttons to his coat, easing it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. With each successive layer removed, the blood stains got worse. The whole left side of his dress shirt was black with blood.

Rachel stood watching him, phone still clutched tightly in her hand. So exposed, he looked wasted away. His ribs stood out beneath his skin, his bony shoulders looked as sharp as knives, his prominent spine curved down his back like a centipede. But even though he looked so sickly, lean muscles rippled beneath his skin with every movement.

He shifted stiffly, meeting her eyes in the medicine cabinet mirror, smirking. Rachel tore her eyes away, her cheeks hot. But when he'd turned away again, her eyes found their way back over to him. This time, though, the deep red gash in his side caught her eye.

"Oh God," she whispered. It looked deep, but it was hard to say, because dark red blood still oozed out of the wound. It wasn't the only one, either. There was a painful-looking cut on his shoulder—_a close call_—and several more, shallower cuts on his chest and his sides. Rachel wondered, not for the first time, what exactly she'd gotten herself into.

He pinched his skin together and, without even a pause, his hands surprisingly steady, poked the needle into his skin. His skin caught on the needle's hip, and his back tensed. His eyes were shut tightly, his face dangerously pale. But then he sucked in a deep breath—and started laughing. It started deep in his chest, a low chuckle, and at first she thought that she was imagining things. But then she saw his shoulders shaking, and his lips pulled apart in a terrible grin as the strange sound worked its way up his throat until it was a hysterical cackle. He pulled the thread through the puncture, and poked the needle through again, working quickly. He bit his lower lip, not out of pain, but more as a way to stop his incessant giggles. By the time the wound was completely sewn up, there was a growing puddle of bright blood at his feet and his laughter had dissolved into intermittent bursts of near-silent chuckles.

He snapped the end of the thread, threw the needle into the sink. Very calmly, he turned to stare at her over his should, and still smiling, said, "Do you have any alcohol?"

&

**Author's Note**: I'm not sure if I should continue this… I've had a hard enough time figuring out how the plot will work, that I don't really want to spend the rest of my summer trying to make everything make sense if everyone hates it. So, what do you think?  
Also, the title might be temporary. I'm not quite sure yet. That's usually the last thing I think of. :p


	2. Deal

**Quickie Author's Note** (actual one with substance below): You reviewers are so amazing! :D Thank you! Now, that out of my system, let's get on with it.

&

"Rachel, what's going on? Quit whispering. I can't—" Bruce broke off, yawning. "I can't understand what you're saying."

She took a deep breath, clutching the receiver against her ear. She could see the man down the hall, standing in her kitchen and holding out two different, almost empty bottles of alcohol, apparently deciding which would taste better. Finally, he uncorked one and poured most of its contents over his angry red wound, his hiss audible even from where she sat kneeling on the floor of her bedroom. The other bottle he unscrewed and took a long swig.

"Rachel?"

If she told him that there was a strange man in her apartment, she knew that Bruce would be over in a heartbeat, probably dressed in his bat suit and ready to scare the shit out of her intruder. But she also knew that if he came over to get her out of this situation, their fight would be over and she would just be encouraging this dangerous habit of his. She bit her lip. But, hell, she was beginning to suspect that maybe this guy she'd picked up off the street was a bit more dangerous than she'd previously assumed. And if she didn't tell Bruce now that she was worried about her safety, her murder would probably grace the front pages of all major newspapers in the area the next morning, with no leads or suspects. He didn't have to come over and bail her out; she just wanted someone out there to know that something was wrong before the end, if her end was, in fact, coming. She closed her eyes and said quietly, "There's a man in my apartment."

"_What._" Bruce's voice is carefully even, void of any emotion.

She knew what he must be thinking—that she was gloating about how she'd moved on already and ha ha ha, the joke's on you buddy—so she launched into a rushed explanation of how he got there. She finished, adding, "So, now I'm not sure what to do. He seems pretty content staying here, but…but, do you think he's dangerous?"

On the other end of the line, Bruce sighed heavily. "_God_," he said finally, "you're such a bleeding heart."

Rachel bristled. "I didn't call you to be lectured. I know that it was probably a bad decision, but I couldn't just let him die out there. If you'd seen the blood—"

"Chances are he's some drug dealer that sold the wrong person bad junk, or something far worse. You should have just left him."

"_What?_" Rachel's voice was a scandalized gasp, and she automatically glanced over to the man in her kitchen. He'd sat down on one of her high stools, hunched over the cold stone countertop, his spine sticking out in sharp relief against his pale skin. He poured himself a glassful of the amber liquid, the neck of the bottle clinking noisily against the glass. She lowered her voice. "I thought you were always so insistent about not killing, about rehabilitating the criminals you do catch—"

"Well, I don't go out of my way to save bad guys, now do I?" he said impatiently. "They don't deserve it."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," Rachel said softly. She couldn't believe him. The one thing that had set him apart from the men he put behind bars was his compassion, and here he was telling her to let an injured man die on the streets just because he _might_ be a criminal. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Bruce."

"Yeah? I don't know what's gotten into _you_. Just hours ago, you were over here trying to get me to abandon my cape forever, and now you're asking me to come over and get some creep out of your apartment? Well, which is it, Rachel? If you want me to stop living my double life, just say so, but don't come crying to me when the criminals start taking over Gotham."

"That's not fair," she said, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "I was asking your advice as a _friend_—"

"You can't just expect me to suit up whenever it suits _your_ convenience—"

"Who is this?" The voice was sickly sweet, curious.

Rachel's head snapped up, staring down the hall where the man still leaned against the counter. But this time he had turned slightly to the side, and she saw now that he was hunched so awkwardly because he was cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear. He glanced over at her, smiling wide as he poured himself another glass of alcohol.

After a long pause, Bruce snapped, "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm your friend—girlfriend?—Rachel's houseguest," he said, holding Rachel's terrified gaze, never once looking away. "You can call me Jack. Nice to meet you, Bruce." He drew out his name in a slow drawl.

"Don't talk to me like you fucking know me," Bruce snarled.

"Oh, but I think I know you better than most. Now." He took the phone in one hand and downed the glass in one gulp. "I do have one question, though, if it's not too rude of me to ask: are _you_ the _Batman_?" He giggled, high and shrill when he finished, finally tearing his eyes away from Rachel when Bruce erupted into a loud, vehement string of expletives.

Rachel slammed down her receiver and sprinted over to the kitchen, where Jack sat leaning against the counter, looking like he was heartily enjoying Bruce's violent abuses. He nodded a few times, saying "Uh-huh" and "Oh really?" like Bruce was engaging him in a fascinating discussion about the latest gossip from the Narrows, but even down the hall, Rachel could hear that Bruce was pounding him with every curse known to mankind, and then some that he'd made up on the spot. And this man was laughing.

She snatched the receiver away from Jack, glaring at him furiously, and tried to speak over Bruce's shouts. She'd never heard him this mad. "Hey—hey! It's me."

His voice was a rough growl. "Rachel, I'm coming over there."

"No! No, I don't think that would be a good idea." He started to raise his voice again, but she said very quietly, "Please." When he'd calmed down enough to listen to her, Rachel said, "Listen, if you came over now, you'd do more harm than good. Let me talk to him. I can handle this. Don't worry."

"Rachel—just… _fuck_."

"I know," she said, locking eyes with Jack. He looked infuriatingly unrepentant. "I know."

Bruce insisted, "I have to take care of him."

"It's under control," she said, her voice quieter now that he wasn't yelling anymore. "I'll call you later, all right?"

"He could be dangerous. He probably _is_ dangerous."

"I know. But if you so much as step one foot in this building without my permission, I will never speak to you ever again. Goodnight." She hung up before he could protest.

The playful amusement was gone from his eyes, but the mocking grin was still there, twisting his scarred mouth into something from Rachel's nightmares. His eyes met hers, and there was no longer the mask of a victimized innocent to hide the frightening darkness behind them.

She shivered but stood tall. "How long were you listening?"

He smirked, drawled, "Long enough."

"It wasn't what it sounded like." It was the lamest excuse she'd ever given in her entire existence, but she couldn't for the life of her think of any convincing reason why Bruce wasn't Batman, based on what he must have heard.

He saw right through her. "If it wasn't what it sounded like, then why are you doing damage control?"

Rachel's heart clenched in her chest, and she panicked. If this man really was some sort of criminal, some low-life scum of the earth, then what was going to stop him from telling all his little friends who the real Batman was? Bruce would be dead within the week. She tried a different approach, desperate. "You can't tell anyone."

His expression darkened, and his voice dropped about an octave, sending chills down her spine, making her want to run. "You know," he said, "I've never been one to take orders, especially from pretty girls like you. It just… rubs me the wrong way." On went the terrifying mask: the corners of his mouth drew up into a wide smile, and the playful lilt in his voice was back. "Anyway, where's the fun in that? I think that everyone in this city has a right to know who the man behind the mask is, the great caped crusader who's making it really hard for criminals to do what they do best…. I can think of several people who would like to deliver their thanks to Batman in person—or at least from the other end of a detonator."

"_Get out_," she hissed, taking a few menacing steps toward him. Of course, it was a bit hard to be at all menacing when she was half a foot shorter than him and completely terrified.

He stood up slowly, never straightening out completely and favoring the side with his deep knife wound. Obviously, he wasn't intimidated by her one bit. Holding his ground, he said, "I want to propose a deal."

"A _deal_—? What, are you fucking crazy?"

He waved aside her insult, instead saying, "You're the assistant DA, right?"

Rachel blinked. "How did you—"

Jack held up a small pile of papers lying next to him on the counter. Some letters from the DA's office, and documents about her next trial. "They were all over the counter," he explained, and grinned. "I straightened them out for you."

Rachel leapt forward and snatched them out of his hands. "You're looking through my stuff? I should have you arrested—"

"But then I wouldn't be much use to you, now would I?"

She paused, eyeing him warily. He seemed perfectly calm, strangely so. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"You're trying to take down the mob, right?"

Rachel's mind flashed to a mob boss's upcoming trial, the trial she should have been prepping for that night. "Of course."

His eyes slit like a content cat, and he purred, "What if I could hand-deliver all of them to you? Every. Last. One." He tilted his head to the side, watching her with a confident smile. There was no way she could possibly pass this offer up, and he knew it.

But there was no way he was telling the truth. Even if he were somehow able to incriminate all of them, she couldn't figure why someone—someone who was probably neck-deep in the mob if he was able to even think of making promises like this—would turn against his employers. She couldn't see what was in it for him. "I don't believe you," she said, but there was doubt in her hesitant voice.

"I have…" He searched for the right word, fingers flitting in the air, and settled on it with a smile: "Connections. They trust me—as much as paranoid criminals can. I have direct access to every drug they sell, to every official they blackmail, to every hit they make. I can get you cold, hard proof of _all_ of it. Now," he said, looking victorious, "wouldn't that be nice?"

"What would you get from this?" Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. There was just something not quite right in all this; she didn't like it. Rachel liked to think that after so many years—okay, maybe not that many—of having constant, direct contact with criminals, she could smell a rat when she encountered one. This man was a rat, and she didn't trust rats.

He looked affronted. "_Me?_ What, you don't think that the knowledge that all these terrible, awful men are behind bars is enough of a reward in and of itself? My, my, my, aren't we the materialistic one, Rachel?"

When he said her name, a shock jolted through her body. He was _mocking_ her. "Cut the crap," she growled. "What do you want?"

"I see I can't fool you," he said, the wry smile returning to his lips. Rachel had to force herself not to stare at his blood-red mouth, but she had a hard time of it. His tongue darted out, leaving a wet shine over his deformed lips. "_Your_ half of the bargain is easy," he said. "My demand is simple: I want to meet the Batman once—just once. Without his mask." He stressed the last part, a rabid glint shining in his eyes.

Rachel blanched. "Why?" Of course Bruce could handle himself; he probably outweighed this man by fifty pounds at least, and all of that weight was pure muscle. And if she had all the mob behind bars, there wouldn't be anyone dangerous on the streets worth losing sleep over, even if they knew Bruce's home address and which room he slept in at night. But still… Her heartbeat sped up unevenly.

He sat down again. It was pretty obvious that she wasn't going to throw him out in the hall any time soon: she was staring at him, transfixed. "I just want to know how a crazy like him—a man who dresses up like a bat, for fuck's sake, and fights crime in his tighty-whities and somehow manages to become the city's greatest hero, a symbol of hope and all that shit—how he hasn't been put away yet." A sharp cackle escaped through his cracked lips, cut off abruptly when he snorted. "I think you can see why I'd be fascinated by him. I just want to meet him. That's all I want."

But it was never that simple, was it? She could see from the lustful gleam in his eyes that he wasn't telling her the whole truth. She considered backing out and figuring out a way to discredit him if he ever came forward with Batman's true identity… But she stopped herself. He was offering to hand-deliver to her the whole mob, the people responsible for some of the most brutal crimes in Gotham. Somehow, his huge promise seemed more believable than if he had told her he would get her just one criminal. And he didn't seem to want to reveal Batman's real face… he just wanted to meet him. She met his eyes, and he held her gaze without changing his expression. He knew he'd won, and she did, too. "Fine," she said slowly, her voice quiet. "Once you've delivered every last one of the mob to me, I'll set up your meeting with Batman."

Jack beamed at her in what would have been a very charming way if it hadn't been for his yellow teeth, the scars, and her feeling that she'd just made a deal with the Devil. "Excellent," he said. "Let's shake on it."

Rachel just hoped that she hadn't signed away her soul.

&

**Author's Note**: Plot woes are gone, at least for the time being! After posting the last chapter, I had a long sit-down and came up with nothing—but while I was brushing my teeth, inspiration struck, and now I have me a plot that will seemingly work. I'm not sure yet if it'll go as smoothly as I hope it will; I still have to outline it, to make sure it doesn't suddenly die on me. But right now, I'm feeling pretty good. And this chapter was fun as hell to write. (: I meant to make it a bit shorter, actually, but it sort of ran away on me. What do you guys think? Are the chapters too long? Not long enough? Just right?  
A HUGE THANK YOU!! for all the lovely reviews you guys gave me! I would really like to reply to each and every one, but I'm utter crap at replying to email. But this being summer, I have virtually nothing to blame my utter crapness on, so I will try my hardest. And you all are so nice! Every time I check my email and see some more reviews, I do a happy dance. I think my parents are worried about me… Speaking of reviews, don't be afraid to leave some constructive criticism. I really would like to know where I could improve. But, you know, praise is excellent as well. ((:  
Thanks, everyone! Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review, let me know what you think! :D Your kind words keep me going.


	3. Gone

_Light surrounded the shadowed figure like white fire. He approached her slowly, bending down as if in slow motion until he could look into her eyes._

_Rachel jolted backwards. His face melted and reformed, the features always different and never someone she recognized. But one thing stayed constant throughout: the bloody red smile set into contrast by the corpse-white skin. He was always smiling at her, even when his expression melted into anger._

_He ran one fever-hot, dry finger down the bridge of her nose, grabbing the tip of it between the vise-grip of his knuckles. His mouth gaped large and dark, a bottomless black hole threatening to swallow her up; his words, if they were words, were garbled and confused._

_But she regained focus when she saw the hard glint of a knife. He held the blade delicately in one hand, bringing it closer to her face. A blindingly fast swipe of the sharp metal, and her face exploded into agonizing pain. Everything was red._

_Holding something in his palm, he spoke, this time his words shockingly clear: "Got your nose!" Shrill laughter drowned out her screams._

&

Rachel woke with a jolt, sucking in a few deep, panicked breaths, her heart beating painfully in her chest. Slowly, very slowly, recollections of the night before came filtering back, like shards of some horrible nightmare, and she was left to pick up the pieces of its aftermath.

Which is why her heart stopped when she saw that the door to her bedroom—the door that she remembered _very clearly_ locking—was standing wide open.

Rachel sat up, clutching her sheets around her like they were some kind of armor. From this distance, she couldn't see any signs of the lock being forced, which was impossible, since her door only locked from the inside. So, how—?

She sat still, listening. The apartment was completely silent, except for the ever-present sounds of traffic down a few stories below, but even that sounded further away this morning. And this silence made her more nervous than anything. He could be anywhere, lurking.

A sharp, insistent mechanical buzz sounded to her right, and Rachel nearly jumped out of her skin. She pushed herself away from the noise, perched on the other edge of the bed, frantically searching for the source of the sound.

Her cell phone sat on the edge of her bedside table, its screen flashing as it vibrated itself onto the floor. Rachel took a moment to savor the relief that flooded through her body before she scooped the phone from the floor. It went still in her hand, but the display remained lit up.

She stared at the phone incredulously. "Thirty missed calls?" Even as she spoke, it vibrated in her hands. She knew the number on the screen. Sighing, Rachel flipped open her cell, placing it delicately against her ear. Something told her that Bruce wouldn't be very happy with her. "Hello?"

But rather than the angry tirade she'd been expecting, she heard only a relieved, shaky sigh. "Thank God."

"What's wrong?"

"_What's_—" He took a moment to calm himself. "I tried calling you this morning, but your house phone was disconnected…"

Rachel sat up straighter, eyes snapping to the handset that sat behind her alarm clock. She reached behind it, trailing her hand along the cord; it came free in her hand, the end waving like a stubby tail. "Shit," she whispered.

Bruce continued, "Your cell phone only started picking up about a half hour ago. I thought you might be ignoring me, but then you sounded so scared last night…" His voice trailed off, and in the background, Rachel could hear the constant hum of a motor. "Anyway, I'm on my way over."

"What? No, Bruce, wait—"

"Too late, we're almost there."

"_We?_ Listen, can't we just talk later? I have to—"

"Nope. Sorry. I won't take no for an answer." Over her continued protests, Bruce added, "See you in a few minutes," and hung up.

Rachel held the phone to her ear for a second longer, shocked. If she weren't mistaken, it sounded like he was enjoying himself, just a little bit. But there was no time to fume, because she would be having company over in a few minutes—'_we_' was always an ominous word when Bruce said it—and she wasn't even dressed yet.

She noticed the note as she was zipping up her skirt. A small slip of torn paper lay on the pillow next to hers. Curious, Rachel crawled over her sheets to get a better look at it. The side she could see was blank, but deep indentations marred the otherwise smooth surface. She turned it over.

In a very brutal scrawl was written: _You're cute when you sleep_.

A revolted shudder wracked her body. She suddenly felt unclean, violated. Who knew what that man had done to her while she slept? Logic told her that, no, even _she_ would have woken up to that. But still…being watched without knowing it, at her most vulnerable moments… In her mind, it wasn't much different than rape.

Her stomach dropped unpleasantly. _Oh God, what if he's still here, watching me now?_ She padded to the door, her heart hammering, and peeked out into the main living area. Nothing. It was like Jack hadn't even been there the night before. He'd even replaced her throw pillows in a symmetrical pattern against the arms of the couch. She did a quick run-through of her apartment, but didn't find him hiding behind any doors or in any cabinets. The front door was locked, although the chain hung free.

He was gone. For now.

She couldn't say if she felt relieved or not, and she didn't have time to sort through her feelings, because someone knocked at her door. Rachel's mind whirred in panic: what if it was Jack back from some early morning jog or something? But that was absurd, she reminded herself, because he was able to relock the front door after himself. If he had a key, why would he knock?

She put her eye up to the peephole, just to be sure, as the knocking grew louder and more impatient. Bruce stood on the other side of the door, looking bored and annoyed, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. And the other person, the man that made them plural. Was that…?

She opened the door wide. "Alfred?"

Bruce breezed past her, his sharp eyes taking in everything. His face was drawn, hard, ready for a fight. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Rachel said, and Bruce visibly relaxed, stopping his pacing long enough to smile at her. She turned back to Alfred, who stood in the doorway, his expression still worried. "Alfred, it's been so long since I've seen you." What she really wanted to do was give him a hug, but an ingrained sense of propriety around the butler made her keep her distance.

But he looked relieved to see her alive, and his smile showed it. "It has been a long time, Miss Dawes."

"I told Alfred I could drive myself," Bruce said from behind her, "but he wouldn't hear of it."

Alfred took Bruce's coat, saying, "I was just worried about the Rolls, sir."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His sharp glare was marred by the grin that crept unbidden to his lips. "I'm a good driver—excellent, even."

Alfred turned away, hiding a smile. "Of course you are, Master Wayne."

Rachel felt like she was a kid again whenever she was around them, all those long days spent running around the grounds of Wayne Manor, annoying Alfred and playing with Bruce. She missed those days, missed being that innocent. Bruce and Alfred bickered good-naturedly until Alfred offered to make breakfast, at which point Bruce shut up and sat down. Rachel leaned against the end of the counter, watching them silently, a smile tugging at her lips.

When Alfred buried his head in her fridge (probably having a very hard time coming up with anything edible), Bruce turned to her. "What's that in your hand?"

Rachel looked down; she was still holding Jack's note. Quickly, she crumpled it up and shoved it in her pocket. "It's nothing," she said, smiling sheepishly. Before Bruce could be nosy and question her further, she said, "I hope I didn't worry you too much."

His mouth quirked in a half-smile that didn't meet his eyes. "Not too much," he said.

Alfred turned on the stove, and for a split second, Rachel saw the hunched and bloody figure of Jack smiling back at her in his place. She blinked and it was Alfred again, cracking an egg into the pan. She shook her head, clearing it, and caught Bruce watching her worriedly before he could look away. When she met his eyes, he looked down at his hands.

"How long did you say you'd been calling me?"

Bruce shrugged, still not meeting her eyes. "Half hour."

_Thirty missed calls._ "You called me once every minute for half an hour?" she teased. _But_, she thought darkly, _cell phones don't turn on themselves._ He'd said that he'd only been able to reach her cell for that half hour… so that must mean that Jack had left within the hour. Maybe her nightmare wasn't just her overactive imagination, after all.

Bruce sat up, looking defensive. "Hey, I was worried about you."

Rachel smiled softly, trying not to let her fear show. "Thanks."

Bruce leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, and smiled back. But before he could say anything, Alfred announced that breakfast was ready and slid their plates in front of them, drawing up a chair on the other side of the counter to eat his own breakfast.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, before Bruce said, "Why did you disconnect your phone?"

Rachel's fork froze midair between her plate and her mouth. She set it down with a noisy clatter. There was no way that she could tell Bruce what really happened, that her adopted criminal had unplugged all the phones in her apartment and broke into her room to spend who knows how long watching her as she slept. No, that would not be good for his blood pressure. Instead, she said, "People were calling. At least you can silence cell phones. Besides, I'm exhausted. I had a really rough night last night."

Poor choice of words.

"Rough how?" Bruce squinted his eyes as if he could shoot Truth Rays at her.

"Ah," she said, trailing off. She looked over to Alfred, and he was staring at her just as expectantly. _Great_, she thought. "I just mean… you know."

"No." Bruce's voice dropped to just above a threatening growl. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing, nothing. Honestly. He patched himself up, and then he just… left." She didn't add that quite a few hours passed between the patching up part and the leaving part, or that she'd made a deal to let this criminal have some one-on-one time with Bruce. She would wait to mention that part. Anyway, Jack probably wouldn't even come through with his part, and so there was really no need to get Bruce any more paranoid than he already was for no reason at all. And if he really did start delivering her evidence… Well, she'd find a way to tell Bruce. But when the time was right.

"Are you sure?"

She laughed. "Do you think that I, of all people, would hesitate to accuse someone of breaking the law? It's what I do for a living, Bruce."

"I guess that's true," he said, smiling. But his smile slipped a little, and he added, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine."

Alfred looked between the two, a quick, penetrating glance. He stood up, saying, "Shall I clear away the dishes?"

Rachel pushed her stool out from the counter. "No, it's all right, Alfred. I can—"

But he smoothly swiped her plate out from in front of her, smiling. "It's no trouble."

Rachel hesitated, halfway out of her chair, feeling like she ought to be helping him out. But Bruce turned to her, leaning his side against the counter. Again, Rachel had a flash of Jack leaning in the same position, stinking of alcohol and blood and grinning at her like a monster.

Bruce must have seen the memory of fear pass over her face, because he leaned forward. "I'm just glad you're all right. I was really worried about you," he said. Hesitantly, he reached a hand out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering against her skin for a few long seconds. When he pulled his hand back, she saw for the first time just how exhausted he looked; his normally impeccably slicked-back hair was tousled, as if he'd just jumped out of bed, and dark circles ringed his eyes, which suggested that he hadn't done much sleeping in said bed. He broke their gaze to stare at Alfred, who was concentrating very hard on washing his dishes. "Alfred was pretty worried, too, although I don't think he'd admit it."

Alfred ducked his head. "I was a bit worried for your safety."

"Only a bit?" Rachel smiled at his back.

He looked at her over his shoulder. "If Master Wayne believes you are safe, then I have every faith that no harm will come to you." He paused, scrubbing at an already immaculate plate. He must have rinsed them twenty times each; Rachel wondered absently whether he was usually this compulsively clean, or if he was just being passive-aggressive and trying to hide his emotions. "Of course, this time, he didn't seem too sure of it himself, so…"

Were they intentionally trying to guilt her? Rachel looked down at her hands, entwined together loosely on the countertop in front of her. Defeated, she said, "I'm really, really sorry for calling you like that last night and making you worry. I should have just waited, because—"

"Rachel." Bruce's voice was quiet, gentle. She looked up hesitantly, embarrassed. "It's no problem. You can call me anytime you need to. I'll always be here for you." His knobby fingers brushed against her own, and he shyly interlaced his fingers with hers. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

And it was over, just as she'd expected. Bruce had forgiven her for any harsh words she'd spoken the night before, and she found that she couldn't blame him as much for dressing like a bat and jumping off tall buildings for fun. But, _no_—she didn't want to be content. Being content meant that there would be no more discussion of Batman until something terrible happened, and then he might not be around any longer for them to talk about the problem. She could still bring it up again; she was still in the argument window.

But when she looked up, he looked so happy, so calm, that she couldn't bring herself to snap him back to reality. Not today.

Alfred turned around, finally drying one of the plates. He paused mid-wipe when he saw their hands, and Bruce quickly pulled his hand away. He hid a smile as he turned to grab another plate to dry. "So, Miss Dawes, how has work been?"

Rachel almost spat out the sip of coffee she'd just taken. Inhaling it instead, she coughed hard, the hot liquid burning her throat and making her eyes water. "What time is it?" she croaked.

Bruce looked at his watch. "Quarter past eight."

"Oh, _shit_, I'm late!"

Alfred stepped forward. "How can I help?"

"Um," Rachel said, looking back over her shoulder. "If you could gather up those papers for me?" She sprinted into her bedroom, dragging her bag out from under yesterday's pile of dirty clothes. Standing briefly in front of the mirror, she tugged on her jacket, straightened her hair, applied lipstick so it might look like she was actually made up, and grabbed the first pair of shoes she could find, hopping down the hall as she tugged them on. Alfred had her papers ready; she tugged open her bag and stuffed them in.

She was still trying to jam her foot into her shoe when Bruce pulled her into a tight hug. "You be careful," he said.

"Uh huh." She squirmed out of his grasp and finally got the shoe on properly.

"No more taking in people off the street."

Rachel paused long enough to level an annoyed glare at him. "I think I've learned my lesson," she said, walking as quickly as her heels would allow to the door.

"Hey, wait, we can drive you."

"No, it's fine," she said, already partway out the door. "I'll be working late, so I need my car. Oh." She grabbed a pair of keys from off the hook next to the door and threw them to Bruce. "Lock up after yourselves, will you?"

&

**Author's Note**: I know, I know, not much Joker in this chapter. But I promise that you'll get your fill in the next one, so keep reading. (: Harvey shows up in the next chapter, as well. I apologize to all you hardcore Joker/Rachel shippers out there; I must admit that sometimes I do like some Bruce/Rachel fluff, and I gave into that urge in this chapter. But this doesn't mean they'll end up together in the end. Of course, it might mean that. We'll just have to wait and see how things pan out.  
I really love Alfred, and it's always fun to write Alfred and Bruce together. Their relationship has a very interesting dynamic: butler/master and father figure/son. I will definitely try to get Alfred in there again; he didn't get many lines in this chapter. ):  
Please review, guys. It really makes my day! And it's always good to know that you're pleasing your audience. ((:  
Also, be sure to check out my oneshot, You Complete Me. (:


	4. Soup

Harvey was standing behind his desk, leafing through a file when she walked in. He looked up when she opened the door, raising his eyebrows and smirking at her. "Glad you could make it in today, Rachel."

"Sorry," she said, setting her bag on the floor next to her chair. "I'm so, so, so sorry."

"Really." He watched her sort through the pile of papers, searching for the documents she'd meant to read the night before. "What, late night out partying?"

She paused to glare up at him, before she pulled out the needed documents. Pretending she hadn't heard him, she said, "So, I didn't get a chance to read these…"

"Rachel," Harvey said, his tone dripping with feigned disappointment. "And you had so much promise. But now, all those late nights with Bruce Wayne…" He grinned at her.

But Rachel avoided his gaze. "It's not like that," she insisted, flustered. Her cheeks burned, and her collar felt warm and tight around her throat. _One early morning with Bruce, more like._ She couldn't tell him what had really kept her up late the night before. Somehow, Rachel doubted that Harvey would be the most understanding in regard to her meeting and making deals with criminals.

Harvey visibly slumped, like she'd pulled out the ground from beneath him. His smile a lot less genuine, he said, "Maybe not, but he's a bad influence all the same."

"_Please_," she said wearily, "spare me the 'bad-boy' talk." She heard the sharpness in her voice too late and snapped her mouth shut, gauging his reaction from the corner of her eye. Sure, they had been bonding over the recent horribly violent and infuriatingly frustrating flood of trials, but he was still her boss, and it was never a very good idea to piss off the man who could fire you at a moment's notice.

Harvey looked away from her, his mouth drawn down into an unpleasant frown.

Rachel tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, began hesitantly, "Hey, I'm sorry abo—"

But he forced a pained smile on his lips and said, "Never mind. Obviously, you had a long night, so who am I to give you a hard time about it? Here." He handed her the file he'd been looking through. "You sit down and read through the papers, and I'll come back in a bit, and we can talk about it. The papers, I mean."

"Of course." She couldn't make herself look him in the eyes.

"I'll just go get some coffee." He closed the door quietly on the way out, leaving Rachel in silence.

She let her shoulders slouch, rubbing a hand over her eyes. Her exhaustion pulled more insistently at her focus now that she didn't have anyone to distract her, anyone to impress. Weakly, she let herself sink into the chair across from Harvey's desk, holding the pile of papers loosely in her lap.

Well, better late than never.

A small card fell to the floor as she tried to arrange the papers in her lap. Rachel paused, staring down at it. The side facing her was covered by a design of blue and white diamonds, not unlike a playing card.

Rachel couldn't say how that could have gotten there; the only deck of cards she'd ever owned had been lost in the process of moving into her apartment, and that had been years ago. A smile tugged at her lips. _Working hard, Harvey, or hardly working?_

She picked it up, already planning ways to tease Harvey about this obviously bad habit of his, when she turned it over. The card almost fell out of her grip, her hand started shaking so hard.

The monster from her dream grinned back at her. Granted, it wasn't the exact likeness, but the terrible bloody smile and the dark eyes and pale skin, those all took her back to that horrible nightmare. Rachel touched her nose reflexively.

Immediately, she felt ridiculous. She was a lawyer, not some five-year-old girl who still checked under the bed for monsters. Dreams were just dreams, and there was always a logical explanation for what appeared in them. Obviously, she must have seen the card somewhere around the apartment—maybe she'd been using it as a bookmark or drink coaster without ever realizing it—and the grotesque figure had decided to choose that night of all nights to feature in the random firings of her overactive imagination.

She stared at the card for a minute longer, then shoved it into her bag. She would think about it later. Right now, though, she had a case to win.

&

The rest of the day passed quickly, however painfully awkward it was. Their usual lively tangents were absent in today's discussion; instead, they focused strictly on business. Rachel found herself staring at Harvey sometimes, as he reread a particularly important paragraph, found herself wanting to explain everything to him, just what Bruce meant to her and just what she'd been doing the night before. She couldn't stand having him think that she was… that she was _that_ kind of girl. A sick disgust curled in her stomach whenever she thought this, annoyed that Harvey would think of _that_ first before anything else. Bruce was her oldest friend; she had a right to speak to him without everyone assuming the worst.

Why should she care what Harvey thought of her?

"Well," Harvey said, sitting back, "that should do for today."

Rachel looked up, surprised. Outside, it was completely dark. "It's late."

Harvey looked up at the clock. "Not too late. Seven."

"Oh," she said lamely.

After a pause, he said, "We'd best be getting off. Going home, I mean."

Rachel felt the blush creep unexpectedly over her cheeks. _Dirty, dirty mind_. "Yeah. I'll look over this more tonight." At Harvey's sharp glance, she said defensively, "I will. I promise."

Harvey stood up, taking his jacket off the back of his chair. "Well, don't let work spoil your plans."

"I don't have any plans." She busied herself placing her papers back in her bag.

"Sure, you don't."

Her head snapped up at his tone, and she glared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harvey squared his jaw, his eyes hard. "Never mind."

Rachel didn't pursue it. She could guess where he was going with that, and she didn't want to pursue that line of thought. Pulling on her coat, she could feel his eyes on her; she did her best to ignore him. By the time she'd done up all her buttons—completely unnecessary, because the weather that day was mild—Harvey was standing at the door to his office, waiting for her. With as much dignity as she could muster, Rachel grabbed up her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder.

Harvey held the door open for her and turned off the light.

He just looked so depressed, and was doing a terrible job hiding it. Rachel stopped, facing him. _I should just tell him about Jack's half of the deal_. Anyway, if he knew, there would be a double bonus: not only would he realize that she hadn't spent the night with Bruce—although it was none of his business what she did nights—but then he would be ecstatic that they would soon be in possession of solid evidence. She could just see in her mind's eye the way his mouth would break into a grin, the way he would laugh aloud, the way he'd lean forward—

But then he had to go ruin it all by saying the cruelest thing he could think of: "Maybe you can get Bruce Wayne to help you read up tonight. Although I'm not sure how much studying you'll get done with him around."

No, she would keep the secret until the last moment possible.

Rachel scowled at him and said coolly, "At least he'd be more help than you." She brushed past him, keeping her eyes always focused ahead of her. The hallway was completely silent except for the muted clicking of her high-heels. Once safely in the elevator, she dared one quick glance; Harvey stood in the doorway, staring at her. Briefly, she considered slipping through the closing doors to apologize to him—but the metal doors shut heavily, and the faint uneasiness in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with her rapid descent.

&

"Shit!" Rachel stumbled backwards in her pitch-dark apartment, struggling to find the light switch. Her knee throbbed painfully, and she had to limp a few inches to the side, carefully avoiding the obstruction she'd run into after first walking in.

She flipped the switch, and immediately doubted that she was in the right apartment. The furniture was in a completely different arrangement than before, a low bookshelf just inside the doorway like some kind of barricade, her sofa and chairs clustered comfortably around her wood fireplace. "What the—"

"Sit down, Rachel."

She jumped, the unpleasant shock rendering her thoughts completely incoherent for the next few seconds. The natural prey in her told her to _run_, but she had enough sense in her to realize that that would only antagonize her predator and make things worse. Then she remembered that she was living in the modern world, and that she wasn't a pygmy horse being stalked by a sabertooth cat, or something. She was a human. With a Taser.

But that was easy to forget, because Jack was peering around the back of one of her comfy chairs, grinning; one hand he held out, motioning towards the end of the couch next to him.

She had a hard time wiping the shocked expression from her face. "What the hell did you do?"

"Helped you out," he said, leaning back into the chair, so that she could only see his hand that rested on the chair's arm.

"_Helped_ me? If I'd wanted you to rearrange my living room, I would have asked."

He leaned around again, slower this time, his face very serious. "Have you ever heard of something called… feng shui?" A grin crept across his features as he continued to stare at her.

"Well, yes," she sputtered. "But—"

"Your apartment has the worst feng shui I've ever seen," he said flatly. "It's no wonder you keep having those bad dreams."

She had to try several times to get anything out. "Wh-what?" Her hands automatically clutched the neck of her coat together tightly, as if that could protect her from his penetrating gaze. "What did you do to me?"

He laughed, a hearty, throw-your-head-back bellow. Wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, he said, "What makes you think I'd want to do anything to you?" His voice sank into a lower growl. "You are just so self-absorbed, aren't you, _princess_?" But the darkness passed from his expression as suddenly as it had come, and Rachel was left reeling. Smiling, not unkindly, he said, "Sit down. We have business to talk about."

Rachel crept around the furniture, giving him a wide berth, finally sitting in the other chair across the room from him.

Jack growled impatiently, pushing himself out of his seat and stalking towards her. For a few terrible seconds, Rachel thought he was going to hit her, beat her. She winced when his fingers dug into her soft arms, her head snapping back as he tugged her up. Not allowing her time enough to right herself, he threw her down onto the couch. She lay where he'd thrown her, trembling, watching him warily as he sat back down.

"There's no need to be shy," he said sweetly. "I won't bite." He tried again, patting the arm of the couch. Gently, as if coaxing a skittish kitten out of hiding, he said, "Come on, come on. It's all right."

She slid down the cushions cautiously, never taking her eyes from him. She realized it with a flash, although her body had been telling her all along: she was terrified of him. Maybe it was the way he was always smiling—which was utterly ridiculous, because smiles were supposed to mean friendliness. But, Rachel remembered, in the animal world, smiles were a very clear message: _I want to kill you_.

Jack leaned his head against the chair, watching her like he was thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. He looked tired, his eyelids drooping sleepily as he relaxed into the cushions; but Rachel could see through his mask. His eyes were bright and alert, following her every movement with disturbing quickness. When she'd finally settled, he blinked slowly, licking his lips. Pronouncing every word with unusual care, he said, "How was work today, princess?"

She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap. There was no way she was going to play this sick game of his. "I never said you could waltz in whenever you wanted." Her voice was tight, and she had a hard time keeping the strain from making her words waver.

"You never said I couldn't." He raised his eyebrows and defiantly settled further into the chair.

Rachel pressed her lips together and sat up straighter in her seat. She wanted to berate him for breaking the law, for trespassing, for violating her… but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She liked to believe that what stopped her was the fact that he might help her with the trial. Instead, she just sighed.

Satisfied that she wouldn't make any more trouble, he shifted in the chair. "I wanted to talk a bit more about our deal."

She looked up at him suspiciously. "You're backing out?"

He snorted. "What gave you that impression?"

"I don't have any evidence at all. We're going to lose the upcoming trial."

He grinned at this. "These things take time. You have to be _patient_."

She didn't have time. Every day the body count grew, and she was virtually helpless to stop it. And every day that this man was allowed to pop in whenever he so chose, the likelihood of her being one of those bodies skyrocketed. "I'm not used to being patient," she said. "If you don't start coming up with your side soon, the deal's off."

His voice was very quiet. "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Rachel."

She looked away.

"Anyway." He scooted to the edge of his seat and used the back of the chair to push himself up. Rachel couldn't help but notice how stiffly he moved, now that he wasn't attacking her. He leaned to one side when he stood, although he never let the pain show in his face. "I guess we can postpone our serious talk until after some food. What do you have to eat? I'm famished." He walked to her kitchen, skirting easily around the newly arranged furniture, and started opening cabinets.

Rachel sprang up as soon as he was out of reach and watched him. His walk looked pained, with his back heavily hunched and with one leg dragging slightly; if it had been anyone but him, Rachel might have been worried. But no, Rachel was enjoying this in a sick way. Jack reached up for something on one of her higher shelves, but let out a sharp grunt of pain, his body instinctually curling in on itself. He snapped his gaze over his shoulder, the ache in his side making him more dangerous than before. "Well, you're the hostess," he snapped. "I know that you might like the view, but would you mind helping?"

Rachel looked up to see what he was reaching for: a can of Campbell's soup. If the bloodstains weren't so dark and stiff in his clothing, she might have laughed. This was absurd. But he kept staring at her insistently, and she worried what he might do if she refused. Sighing, Rachel crossed the kitchen, careful to stay a few feet away from him the whole time. "Do you mind?" Her kitchen was cramped, and she'd never felt it more obviously until now.

"Not at all." He smiled unkindly, not moving.

She considered briefly backing off and making him get it, but she'd seen what he could do, and she didn't have any desire to see it again. Her arms still ached where he'd grabbed her earlier. Taking a steadying breath, she closed the distance between them, working hard to keep a brave face on when her whole body was screaming to run the other direction. Jack never moved, never took his eyes from her. She'd been around enough criminals to know that he was just trying to make her nervous, but a consolation like that did nothing to calm her nerves.

She reached up quickly, pulling the first can down that her hand touched. He was radiating heat, like some kind of furnace; his body was fighting infection, no doubt, with so many wounds. Rachel shoved the can into his hands and skittered backwards. She realized only then that she'd been holding her breath.

Jack held the can out to her.

"What?" Her heartbeat, just beginning to slow down, picked up again.

"I can't cook," he said innocently. "Would you please make this for me?"

Her hands took the proffered can automatically. "But," she protested, "all you have to do is warm—" But he turned away and sat carefully on one of the stools. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining how good it would feel to put Maroni and his men behind bars for the rest of their lives, thanks to the evidence this man could give her. "Fine," she sighed. "Never mind."

She took down one of her pots and set the soup warming on the stove. While she stirred it, she asked hesitantly, "Does it hurt?"

He didn't answer. When she looked around at him, he was watching her silently without really seeing her, his expression slack and blank. He noticed her staring after a moment, and his eyes met hers. Distractedly, he murmured, "Hm?"

"Does it hurt?" she said again. "You know…" She could see the horrible wound very clearly in her memory, and it still made her shudder. She placed her hand on her side in hopes of illustrating what she meant without having to actually come out and say it.

He shifted, looking annoyed. "Why do you ask?"

She looked back at the tomato soup so she wouldn't lose her nerve. "I was just thinking that you would probably want to get that man behind bars as soon as possible, right? So he wouldn't be able to hurt you again?" _Maybe that will help motivate him, the thought of justice…_

"Don't make me sound like a weak cunt," he snapped. Calming down, he looked back at the counter, fiddling with a stiff piece of paper in his hands. "But it's nice to know you're worried about me." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Don't worry your pretty little head any more about it. I took care of it."

Rachel clanged the spoon against the pot harder than she'd meant to. _I took care of it_… "What do you mean?" Of course, she already knew what he meant. Part of her was viciously kicking herself for asking such a stupid question; she didn't want to know what he did when he was away from the apartment. She didn't want to know anything.

His voice was smooth. "Let's just say that I slept really well last night."

Rachel closed her eyes, stirring the soup at a quickened pace. "What?" she said faintly, before she could stop herself.

She felt something small and light hit the back of her head, and her spine straightened instinctively. It hardly made a sound when it hit the floor. "Do I have to fucking spell it out for you?" he snarled. "He's dead, all right?" His deep growl trailed off into a strange, high-pitched giggle; the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end.

Rachel turned off the stove and reached mechanically for a bowl. Her hand only shook a little as she poured out the thick, red soup, but she still managed to pour a substantial amount directly onto the counter. Biting her lip, she set the pot back on the stove. He was silent behind her, and that scared her more than if he had been shouting threats. The best predators don't need to say anything to terrify their prey.

Grabbing a spoon from the silverware drawer, she turned slowly to face him. He wasn't smiling anymore. His hair was more disheveled than the day before, and dirty white patches of paint made his skin splotchy, pale; his mouth looked bloody. Large, dark stains discolored his shirt and, Rachel noticed with a sickened gasp, made the fine material cling to his skin. The blood was fresh.

"My soup's getting cold," he said, face sullen.

She set the bowl down in front of him hard enough to cause a good portion of it to slosh over the sides. Jack snatched the spoon from her hand and set to eating, hunched over his bowl.

Her hands resting lightly on the edge of the counter in case she felt faint again, she murmured, "Did you kill him?"

He looked up, squinting at her. "Do you _really_ have to ask?" He snorted. "Even _you_ aren't that stupid, princess."

Rachel felt sick to her stomach; how could he act so normally, after he just ended another human's life? "I could have you arrested," she said, her voice trembling. "I could call Batman—"

"But that would just be giving me what I want, wouldn't it?" He swallowed another spoonful of soup and let her think about that. "Haven't you heard of operant conditioning? Keep enforcing this kind of behavior, keep _rewarding_ me for breaking the law, and before you know it—bam!—I'll be killing people just so you'll make me another bowl of this shitty soup." He swirled his spoon in the watery mixture distastefully. His voice was teasing, incredulous: "I honestly didn't know it was possible to fuck up Campbell's soup this badly."

He didn't even look guilty. It was like he'd just confessed to her that he liked to watch reality TV shows or sleep in the nude—death meant_ nothing_ to him. And someone who couldn't even feel remorse after murdering a man… well, Rachel was pretty sure he wasn't the type she wanted to go making deals with. She doubted he would keep it.

"Your name isn't really Jack, is it?" she said slowly.

Without looking up at her, he said between wet slurps, "No."

Rachel braced herself, her muscles tensing. She wasn't sure where his line was, but she was fairly certain she was about to cross it. "What is it?"

He paused, setting his spoon back down in the almost-empty bowl. His eyes searched her face for a second, considering. Then he looked dismissively back down to his soup, nodding at the floor. "You got my card, didn't you?"

Rachel looked behind her, down at the piece of paper he'd thrown at her. It was, she now realized, a playing card. With a chill traveling down her spine, she picked it up, although she knew what she would find on the other side. It was just like the one she'd found in her pile of papers earlier that day. "A joker?"

"_The_ Joker," he corrected her.

&

**Author's Note**: Haha, I'm sort of regretting bringing Harvey into it, because I'm not sure how much more I'll be able to write him in. Oh well. Lots more Joker next chapter! ;)  
This chapter would not end. I think that if I'd continued it, it would have been over 7000 words long, which would mean that it would take me much longer to correct it and subsequently post it, and I didn't want to do that to you readers. (: Instead, I'm splitting it up a bit and I'll probably be able to post the next chapter on Friday (which is good, because I leave on vacation the next day… but I'll talk about that in the next AN).  
I really wish that some of you "anonymous" reviewers had accounts, because then I could ramble at you, because some of the questions you ask/comments you make just call for a nice, long ramble. Since you don't, I'll just have to satisfy myself with a BIG THANK YOU SO MUCH! :D (although, Never Jam Today: I completely agree with you about the Joker. Spot on!) You readers are so amazing! I would never get through writing a story this fast. ((: And to you silent alert-ers/fav-ers… just a little hello would be nice. I always wonder whether some of you are actually reading the story.


	5. Promise

**A Bit of a Warning**: Lots of violence in this chapter, kids, because there's lots of Joker. If you're squeamish about that sort of thing… well, you've been warned. Nothing too gory... just lots of heads slamming into things. No one dies. (:

&

_My God_, Rachel thought, _this guy really is crazy. _"Your name is _the Joker_."

He shrugged. "It's what all my enemies call me." The corners of his lips quirked at this, but he busied himself stuffing the last spoonfuls of soup into his mouth.

Rachel walked swiftly past him to the living room.

"What are you doing?" He didn't sound so calm anymore.

She didn't answer, instead digging through her purse until she found her cell phone. Bruce would know what to do. She'd been stupid to think that she could handle someone like this by herself, without any help. Well, she would right that wrong now.

The Joker stood unsteadily. "Who are you calling?" He sounded downright nervous; Rachel had caught him off guard and she liked it.

"Batman." She dialed the last number, pressing the phone to her ear, listening to the ringing. _Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up—_

But the Joker snatched the phone away from her, snapping it shut. "Are you sure you don't want to think about what you're doing first?"

"There's nothing to think about," she snapped, trying to grab her phone away from him.

But he placed a hand on her shoulder and roughly pushed her onto the couch. Rachel's head cracked hard against the wood backing, but she was already struggling up again, panic driving her. The Joker grabbed her neck, shoving her back down, pressing her cheek into the cushions; light glinted off the knife he held in his hand. Rachel froze, breathing hard.

Completely unruffled, the Joker said very quietly, "You'll want to think about what you're doing." He let go of her neck and sat down on the cushion next to her, clasping his hands in his lap. Rachel fell off the couch trying to get away from him, but stopped when her back slammed against the chair leg.

"If you call the Batman now," he said, his voice calm, "then our deal's off. I'll have gotten what I want, and you have nothing to bribe me with. And the mob will still be out there killing people, and that will rest _solely_ on your head." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his bony knees, so that he was closer to her. Smiling apologetically, he said in a light voice, "I promise that I'll get you all the little mobsters that your heart desires. Trust me. I _always_ keep my promises."

Rachel didn't move, her eyes traveling from his face to the phone in his hand. She could find other ways to bag the mob. Anyone who could eat so hungrily after just killing a man was not someone to make deals with; those promises would be broken.

He saw her train of thought clearly on her face. But before he could say anything, her cell phone vibrated in his hands. He looked down at the number, smiled, and said, "I'll take this." He flipped open the phone and held it to his ear. "Hello? Who is this?"

Rachel pushed herself up on her knees, but he held out his knife, his eyes boring into hers, until she sat back down. She heard Bruce's voice, faint, distant, but distinctively angry.

Licking his lips, the Joker grinned at her. "She's a bit… tied up at the moment." His voice was sickly sweet, innocent except for the laughter that seemed to unconsciously build in his throat. "Could I take a message?" He held the phone away from his ear for a moment, saying, "Wow, Batman must really like _you_."

Rachel knew what Bruce would do. He'd threatened to come over the last time, and she'd been able to calm him down then, but this was too much. She had to stop him. If he came over now… she couldn't see how he would escape unscathed, and she didn't want to live the rest of her life knowing that it was all her fault that Batman was killed.

The Joker was having a hard time speaking through his bubbling laughter. "No, actually, I would _not_ like your foot up my ass, although thank you for asking. You're so polite, Batman. Maybe I ought to learn a bit from you."

"Batman!"

The other line went silent, and the Joker glared at her through narrowed eyes.

She heard a faint "Rachel?"

"Batman, I'm—"

The Joker lashed out at her, slapping the back of his hand hard against her cheek, and growling, "Shut the _fuck_ up." Rachel sprawled out on the ground, her head slamming into the base of the couch and cracking against the floor. She lay there dazed for only a second, staring up at the seething Joker. Terrified, she pushed herself into a sitting position and tucked her knees in close to her body, a comforting fetal position. Her cheek stung, her eyes watered.

"You want to talk to her?" His voice wasn't as composed as before, now just a gruff snarl. "Here she is." He bent down in front of her, and Rachel instinctively drew away from him, her unsteady hand still cupping her burning cheek. The knife was out before she could react; he pressed the blade against her throat, hard enough that she felt skin break and a thin stream of blood tickle down her neck. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that Rachel found utterly terrifying. What she'd seen before, however rude, mocking, calm, that hadn't been him. Only now was he in his true element.

In a heated whisper, he said, "Tell him that you want him to come over."

That would be the end of the deal. She'd be no closer to making Gotham a better place than she had been before; in fact, she would set them back in the dark ages, because they wouldn't have Batman any longer. If he should kill her now… But Rachel couldn't follow that train of thought. "Batman, I—" Her voice broke. Weak. She had to stay strong for Bruce's sake; she wouldn't let this man have him. Looking up at the Joker, she found enough courage left in herself to steady her voice and stare him down defiantly. "I'm fine."

Bruce sucked in a breath. "Rachel, what the hell are you talking about? That guy's _threatening_ you—"

"No, I—"

The Joker snatched the phone away. "Oops, I'm sorry. Time's up." His smile was bitter, angry. "Maybe you should have exchanged more pleasantries about how much you care for each other and all that shit, because," he said, meeting her eyes, "that was the last time you'll ever talk to her." He cut off Bruce's outraged shouts, snapping the phone shut.

The Joker grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragging her up. Gripping her neck tightly in his hand, he pressed the knife against her fluttering vein. Rachel froze.

"You know," he said, chuckling in a way that was completely at odds from how viciously he held the knife. "You're _really_ starting to piss me off." He ran the sharp blade over her skin. "I could cut your arteries right now—_snip, snip_—" He lifted the knife, turning it in front of her eyes, then eased it between her lips, the pointed tip tickling the roof of her mouth. "—I could shove this into your brain, just one quick—_jab_." He pressed the knife tip into the fleshy skin, and warm, salty blood trickled down the back of her throat. "You'd be dead in minutes, and then what could Batman do to save you, hm?" His hand tightened around her throat, his thumb pressing against her windpipe, making it difficult to breathe. Growling, he spat, "_How would he save you then?_"

Rachel shut her eyes tightly, willing herself to wake from this nightmare. It didn't work.

She opened her eyes again when she felt his hand drop from her throat. It took all her self-control not to flinch back when his gloved hand gently caressed her cheek. He stared down at her almost tenderly—almost, if it weren't for that terrifying, hateful grin. "But," he said softly, his thumb running lightly over her lips. "I've always liked a challenge." He smirked; she could feel the warmth of his skin through his gloves. "I'm having too much fun. I won't kill you, princess." With one finger, he traced down the bridge of her nose, his knuckles closing in a painful grip around the tip. Playfully, he shook her head back and forth. "I won't kill you. _Yet_." He let her go, stepping past her to the door.

Rachel sank to the floor, only allowing herself a terrified sob when she heard the door close behind him, the bolt sliding into place. Only then did she let the fear to take over. She climbed onto the couch, curling up into a tight ball, her thoughts loud and jumbled. Her hand weakly felt the cut on her neck, her fingers coming away wet and sticky.

But she was alive.

And Bruce was safe, for now.

&

She didn't even hear Batman come in, but she felt the draft of cold air that clung to him when he climbed in through her window. He was the night. Rachel looked up when he stood in front of her; his eyes were only faint glints through the slits in his mask.

"Where is he?"

Rachel swallowed. She could see how he was able to terrify his victims. "Gone," she whispered. "Gone, gone, gone."

Batman pulled off his cowl, letting it drop to the floor with a sharp clatter, and he was Bruce again, the worry making him look a century older than he was. "Oh, God, Rachel," he murmured, his gloved fingers running over the fresh cut on her neck.

The tears squeezed out from the corners of her eyes. "Bruce." Her voice broke. _Weak, weak, weak._

But he swept her up into his arms, and everything was all right. His armor was hard, jabbing into her ribs and pressing against her bruises, but all Rachel registered was the warm feeling of security. She buried her face against his neck and tried to get herself under control.

Bruce didn't make it any easier for her. Pressing his nose into her hair, his arms tightened almost painfully around her waist, and he murmured into her ear, "I was so sure he'd kill you."

Rachel laughed unsteadily, but bit back the giggle as soon as it started. She knew who she sounded like. "No, it's… I'm okay."

He didn't let go of her, never even eased his grip, like he was afraid she would slip away again. Finally, after a while, after Rachel's pulse had slowed back to normal and the adrenaline had worked its way out of her system, Bruce murmured, "If this happens again… I—I don't know what I'll do. I don't _want_ to know what I'll do."

She pulled away to look up into his face. His brows were drawn together, and he looked anywhere but her eyes. Gently, she smoothed his bangs away from his forehead. The look he gave her made her stomach twist and spasm uncomfortably. It was her turn to look away.

"I'm really sorry." She'd already apologized so many times in the past twenty-four hours, but she knew it needed to be said. "It won't happen again."

Something shifted behind his eyes, but his eyelids drooped, and he leaned his forehead against hers, finally relaxing.

&

He was impossible to get rid of.

"I'm serious, Bruce." Rachel crossed her arms, the adrenaline now only a faint buzz at the edge of her thoughts. "You need to get some sleep."

He sat heavily on her couch and shrugged, holding his cowl between his hands. "I'm not tired."

Rachel sighed. "Maybe you aren't now…"

Bruce gave her a Look. "I'm not a kid anymore, Rachel. I think I know when I'm tired."

The dark circles under his eyes said otherwise. Rachel pressed her lips together, not saying anything.

He leaned back against the pillows. "Look, I'll just stay the night to make sure that he doesn't come back." When she continued eyeing him skeptically, he added, "I'll be gone before you wake up. It'll be like I wasn't even here."

It would be nice to be able to sleep soundly for once, knowing for certain that she was safe, especially with the trial coming up the next day…. Rachel gave in. "All right."

Before she closed the door to her room, Bruce said, "You have to promise me one thing, though."

Rachel paused. "What's that?"

"That you'll take the day off tomorrow."

She turned around, entreating him, "Bruce, no, you _know_ how important this trial is—"

"Rachel." He lowered his voice, said very gently, "It's the least you can do for me, after nearly giving me several heart attacks, at the same time."

She bit back her retort, guilt preventing her from arguing. "Harvey won't be happy…"

"Harvey's the DA. I'm sure he can handle the trial himself. Besides, you won't be very much use to him if you have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the courtroom." But he saw the reluctance on her face. He crossed the room, his cape billowing out behind him, and gently took her shoulders in his hands. "I just want to know that you're safe. You're an easier target out there, Rachel."

She sighed, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. "Fine," she said, her voice muffled. "Fine. One day."

Bruce grinned at her, relieved. "You get some sleep," he said to her as he headed back to the couch. "It looks like you need it." He grabbed a novel sitting on the end table. "Good night."

"Night," she said quietly, and shut the door behind her.

Sleep didn't come easy that night. She woke up several times, gasping for breath, the nightmares only a faint, intangible memory, but a memory all the same. By seven that morning, she gave up trying to get some rest and padded out into the living room. The pillows on her couch were scattered, the only indication that Bruce had been there the night before. She skirted around them to the kitchen, pulling a box of cereal and a bowl down for breakfast.

With the bright midday light streaming in through her window, Rachel was able to take a nap later in the afternoon, although the guilt about threatened to consume her; she should have been working, but instead she was lounging lazily on the couch in her nightgown. Harvey had sounded more than a little pissed that she wouldn't be showing up for work—although his annoyance turned to uncomfortable sympathy when she explained that it was her 'time of the month.' But even though she had his blessing to rest up and take the day off, Rachel still felt like she was breaking several laws by playing hooky. She made herself feel better by watching the news broadcast covering the first day of Maroni's trial. At least this way she could keep more or less up to date with what was going on, give herself the illusion that she wasn't being a terrible person and abandoning work.

&

But before she knew it, it was completely dark outside and she was waking up with a very painful crick in her neck. The TV blared some unfunny sitcom; Rachel turned it off. She sat up, rubbing her aching neck and trying groggily to focus.

Someone knocked at her door. Even though her logic told her that it was probably Bruce come to check up on her again, instinct said otherwise. She walked up to the door slowly, flinching each time the knocking grew louder and more insistent. Pressing her cheek against the door, she checked out the peephole.

Not Bruce. Definitely not Bruce.

Her heart jumped into her throat. She knew this man, knew his face very well: it was one of Maroni's men. His presence at her door might have been reason enough to panic, but what scared her even more than a wanted killer waiting at her door was the terror in his face. One eye was swollen shut, a dark, red-black bruise covering almost half his face; a thin stream of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

"Special delivery." The Joker's high, keening laugh sliced through her door, freezing the blood in her veins.

Her hands shaking, Rachel unlocked the deadbolt. There was no time to call Bruce; the Joker had finally delivered his half of the bargain, and she knew that he wouldn't come back later. Now or never.

The door swung open, and Rachel jumped away just in time to avoid being knocked over. The man stumbled forward, falling on his hands and knees and scrabbling forward. He tripped over himself several times, finally falling still and staring with terrified eyes at the door.

The Joker strode in, his pace leisurely. Rachel stared at him, transfixed. He was a man transformed; his face was covered in a thick, white paint, his mouth like a red gash, dark paint like bruised eyes. War paint.

The man on the floor pulled himself up, edging away from the Joker while still trying to look brave. He climbed over the back of the couch, apparently taking comfort from the fact that there was something between them, because he shouted, "You fucking traitor!"

The Joker stopped, tipping his head back, sucking his cheeks in.

The man seemed to be thrown off balance by his silence. His voice only sounding slightly shaken, he continued his tirade. "I told them—I told them that you were no good. No one listened to me. But I could always see you for what you really were, you fucking cunt, you little _freak_—" The man stopped, paled.

Rachel saw the Joker's face, and she immediately knew why the man had fallen silent so suddenly. His expression was terrible. Not full of wrath, no, although that was lurking beneath the surface. But he looked so utterly calm, so completely bored, like the man before him was nothing more than a distasteful little bug that he couldn't wait to crush. The man tensed when he reached a hand into his jacket, stumbled back when the Joker drew his hand out, holding a switchblade. His voice quiet, dangerous, the Joker said, "Tell her what you told me."

The man tried not to let the fear show, and failed. He kept his eyes trained warily on the knife. "I'm not telling you anything, you bastard," he spat.

The Joker's movements were surprisingly agile. He vaulted over the couch, landing heavily on the floor in front of his victim. The man gave a shout, stumbling backwards into the wall. Getting right up in his face, the Joker gripped the man's shirt collar, shoving him into the wall; his mouth opened and shut with each weak gasp. The Joker held the switchblade to the man's throat and snarled, "_Tell her what you told me._"

The man struggled a moment, trying to free himself, but whimpered thickly when the Joker slammed his fist into his windpipe. "Okay," he gasped. "Okay."

Rachel was frozen in place, staring on in horror. More than anything, more than the terrifying fury and brutal violence, Rachel was stricken by the fact that she saw Batman in the Joker's actions, for that brief second. But that was all it took. She shook this thought out of her head—no, Batman was good, fought for the weak. _But_, a small voice whispered unbidden, _are their methods really all that different?_

One hand still gripping the man's shirt, the Joker dragged him over to where Rachel stood; she backed up a few steps, holding onto the back of a chair for support. He pulled the man in front of her, and Rachel couldn't help but think, slightly hysterically, that he was going to make the man apologize for making a mess of things, like some naughty child.

When the man was silent, the Joker shook him hard. He closed his eyes tightly, the muscles in his jaw working, then glared at Rachel with such hatred that she took another step backwards. "I'm not telling you anything, bitch—"

His head slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a small crack, and he collapsed to the ground, limp. But that didn't stop the Joker. He picked the man up again and held the knife against his neck, and Rachel could see that he wasn't going to stop this time.

"Let him go!"

The Joker glanced over his shoulder at her, pausing. When she didn't back down, he let go of his hold on the man, dropping him to the floor.

"His testimony means nothing if the judge finds out that you beat it out of him," Rachel said, "something that will be really obvious, seeing how he's completely covered in cuts and bruises. He has to give it willingly."

The Joker scowled at her, rolling his eyes. He crouched down next to the man, holding the knife out in front of him, an unspoken threat. "All right." He drew his lips out into an unfriendly, animalistic smile. "Will you willingly testify?"

The man shrank closer to the ground. "Y—yes." His eyes never left the knife.

The Joker looked back over to her, the smile gone. "Where's the problem?"

"It doesn't work like that," she snapped. "I thought you agreed to bring me _evidence_."

The Joker stood slowly, turning to face her, the frustration evident in his every movement. "You never _specified_. Testimony is better than evidence."

"No," she said slowly, suddenly feeling vulnerable and unsafe with all his anger focused on her. "It isn't. Humans lie, all the time, especially if you have to torture them to get them to talk. Documents, numbers, photos, they lie less."

"It still counts."

"No, it—"

The man leapt forward suddenly, pushing the Joker to the side as he aimed directly for her. Rachel didn't have time to run, felt the full weight of his body slam into her. Her back collided with the wall, the sharp crack to her skull making everything black for a few terrifying seconds. His fists connected with her jaw, her temple, her stomach, anywhere he could reach, scratching, kicking, hitting. Rachel tried sliding to the floor, but he pressed his hand tightly against her neck. _Oh God—_ He slammed her head against the wall.

But then he was gone, and Rachel slid to the floor, gasping and shaking. She opened her eyes slowly, waiting for the room to right itself, her furniture gradually coming into focus, her feet splayed out before her, the grain in the wood floor. Something was moving a few feet ahead of her, confusing, violent movements. It took her a moment to realize what was going on.

The Joker straddled the man, slamming his head against the floor. The man's legs kicked out wildly, trying to get out from under his attacker, his hands gripped the Joker's neck. But the fight went out of him with each successive crack of his skull. It wasn't until the Joker held the man's head pressed against the floor that Rachel realized that he'd been muttering to himself under his breath. He took out his knife.

Rachel surged forward, grabbing his arm before he could make the fatal cut. The Joker shoved her to the side, but she pushed herself up again. "Wait!"

He looked up at her, his gaze absolutely murderous. "_What._"

"We need his testimony," she said weakly.

His shoulders were shaking, chest heaving hard from the exertion. Loose strands of hair were plastered on his forehead. He closed his eyes, licking his red lips. "But you just said," he said, his voice quiet, "that you didn't need him for the trial." The man squirmed beneath him, and the Joker snapped his head around, eyes blazing. The man lay silent, unmoving. "Obviously, the bastard's no more use to you."

"I… I can still use him. Just don't kill him."

"Pitying a criminal, are we?" His gaze was sardonic. "Well, _don't_. Because I'm sure that there's nothing that he'd like more than to finish the job he started. He's not guided by your _high-minded moral principles_." His words hissed sharply, mocking.

Rachel knew he was right. Blood from a cut to her temple stung her eyes; she was lucky to be alive. But she needed to win that trial. "I'll take him to the police station," she said, her voice firm.

The Joker stared at her for a long moment, then glanced back down at the man he was crushing. He lessened his hold on the man's throat. "Today's your lucky day," he said, pushing himself up. "You get a reprieve." He dragged him to his feet, holding his hands tightly behind his back. But the mobster no longer posed any threat; he could barely stand, let alone attempt another attack.

"I guess we should get him down to the car," Rachel said, watching him doubtfully.

&

"What are you doing?"

The Joker buckled his seatbelt and turned to her. His white face paint seemed to glow in the dim streetlights. "Coming with you," he said innocently.

Rachel glanced into the backseat, where the mobster leaned weakly against the chair, his forehead pressed against the window. His spirit looked broken, as did his nose. And the Joker had done this to him. She shuddered. "I think I'd be more comfortable if—"

"He'll strangle you," he said, abruptly, cutting her off and staring intensely at her. "Now, I don't know, maybe you _like_ that sort of thing. I didn't know you were into kink." He trailed off, smirking suggestively.

Rachel didn't encourage him with an answer.

Unperturbed, he continued: "He won't even _think_ of touching you with me here, princess." He leaned around the seat, teeth glinting in the light. "Am I right?"

The man shrank away from him, glaring hatefully.

Rachel clenched her hands on the steering wheel. It was a simple task of choosing the lesser of two evils: either she risk the mobster getting enough of his senses back to attack her on the way over, or she take along the man who all but confessed that he'd like to kill her. She glanced over at the Joker. He was staring at her, a grin playing on his lips. Rachel looked away, out the window. At least the Joker had told her he wouldn't kill her _yet_; she'd had no such promise from the beaten man behind her.

She started the car, and the Joker sat back contentedly in the seat. Every few seconds, Rachel's eyes snuck automatically up to her rearview mirror, where she could see the hunched form of the mobster. She could see the glint of his eyes, but nothing more. What had she become, that she was carting around a carload of criminals on her days off?

At her first stoplight, Rachel gripped the wheel tightly and glanced over at the Joker. If it hadn't been for the blood smeared on his face, or the white paint that made his skin glow like a moon, he would have looked peaceful; he leaned his head against the headrest, and an almost soft smile tugged at the lumpy scars on his cheeks.

"Thank you," she said quietly, so quietly she wasn't even sure she said it.

The Joker looked over at her, never bothering to lift his head, just rolling it lazily until he could stare her in the eyes. He raised his eyebrows.

Rachel looked down. "You know." She tried again, having a harder time finding the words now that he was watching her. "Thank you… for—for saving my life."

All he said was "The light's green."

Rachel's foot automatically slammed on the gas, even though there wasn't anyone behind her to worry about. She hated driving in the city. At the next light, she stayed silent, watching the road ahead of her with fixed eyes.

Rachel had never been known for being particularly gracious, but she felt she owed it to him at least: not only had he pulled her potential murderer off her, but he delivered someone who could probably help the trial along. Of course, she wished that those things hadn't turned out to be the same person…

She tried again. "I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am—"

But the Joker cut her off with his soft voice, "If you really wanted to show your gratitude, you'd take me to the Batman."

Rachel glanced sharply at the man in the rearview mirror. She saw him perk up at the mention of Batman's name. Grimly, she said, "We can talk about that later."

It wasn't hard finding a parking space right in front of the station. Still buckled in, she said, "I think I'd better take him in."

"Sure you can handle him, princess?"

"Stop calling me that," she snapped.

"What?" The Joker stared at her guilelessly. "Oh. Princess?" He leaned his head back against the headrest. "I think it's funny."

"I don't," she said. "And I'd appreciate it if you would cut it out."

"All right, then." He licked his lips, mouth splitting into a wide grin. "I guess I'll just have to think of another one."

He just seemed so infuriatingly _pleased_ with himself. Rachel unbuckled quickly, the metal hook clanking against the window as she opened the door. It was probably just the adrenaline, but she was beginning to think that if she stayed another minute in the car with this man, she just might have to strangle him.

The mobster folded out of the car as soon as she opened the door. She realized for the first time just how large he was; it was hard to tell when he was cowered on the floor or slamming her head against the wall. It was a short walk to the station, at least.

Someone held one of the inner doors open for her, and it wasn't until she'd passed him that he murmured an incredulous "Rachel?"

Rachel spun around, her small hands always gripping the thin band of plastic tie that held the criminal's wrists together. "Harvey," she said, feeling the blush rise to her cheeks. She realized only then what she must look like: bruised, bloodied, and wearing only her nightgown. "Shit."

"What—what happened to you?" His eyes flew angrily to the man she held in custody. It took only a second for the recognition to dawn on his face. "Holy shit."

The station was a flurry of activity after that; as star witness in Maroni's trial, the man was given special treatment, which meant a few extra guards with a few extra guns. Rachel looked on, pulling Harvey's jacket tighter about her shoulders. She tried to focus, she tried to imagine what this might do for the trial—but she couldn't stop her thoughts from wandering every few minutes back out to the car where she knew the Joker sat, waiting for her.

He'd kept his promise, something she'd been sure he wasn't even capable of doing. And while this wouldn't be the breakthrough they'd been hoping for, they might be able to strike a deal with the man that would get him to talk. Although, maybe the threat of another unsupervised play date with the Joker was enough to loosen his lips.

Her mind's eye played out the scene again and again. The pain shooting through her head, the blood in her mouth, the fear, the anger—and then nothing. He'd saved her life.

Harvey knelt down in front of her, placing one hand on her knee, only to pull quickly away when he realized he was touching bare skin. "You all right?" he asked, squeezing her arm gently instead. "You look a bit better after they cleaned you up. But still…" He ran his fingers lightly over one of her many bruises, then seemed to snap back to himself, pulling away. "What the hell happened?"

"He just…" What could she tell him? "He caught me before I went back into my apartment," she said, sighing. "I don't know how he found me, but…" She bit her lip. "Someone from down the hall got him off of me."

He laughed weakly. "You really need to move out of the bad part of town."

Rachel tried to smile back, but it wouldn't come. She leaned forward, hugging her arms around herself.

"You okay?" He rubbed a hand gently over her back.

"Yeah." She rested her head on her knee. "Headache."

"You probably don't need to do anything more here tonight. We've got it under control." He paused. "Do you want me to drive you home?" His voice was hesitant, as if he was expecting her to burst in at any moment to tell him how stupid of an idea that was.

Rachel shook her head. "It's not a very far from here. I can make it."

"Are you sure?" Jokingly, he added, "You know, we need all the help we can get on the trial. You getting into another accident would definitely not help." But in a more serious voice, he said, "I need your help, Rachel."

She smiled at him. "I'm fine." Standing up, the world only tipped under her a little, exhaustion finally setting in. Harvey steadied her, one hand on her elbow. Shrugging out of his jacket, she said, "I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

"No," Harvey said firmly. "You need rest—"

"I had plenty of rest today." She smiled at him, resting on hand lightly on his arm. "I'll be okay."

He looked doubtful.

But she didn't give him a chance to object. She walked off, pausing to wave back at him before the door closed behind her. The cold night air raised the gooseflesh on her skin. She shivered briefly, hurrying toward her lone car. She bent down, peeking in the window before she opened the driver's side door.

He was gone.

Rachel couldn't explain the disappointment that clouded her thoughts. He hadn't waited for her. He could be anywhere. She climbed into her seat, going through the motions. Before she stuck the key in the ignition, though, she looked up at the rearview mirror.

A joker card was stuck in the frame. She pulled it out, held it under the dim light pouring out from the station's front door.

_Sorry, princess, but it's too perfect._

&

**Author's Note**: This was an especially long chapter, to tide you over in case I don't post before Wednesday. Because, as promised, I'll be heading off on vacation tomorrow, although they _claim_ they have internet where we're going. So I might be able to post maybe even a few more chapters even though I'm away from home, but I don't want to get your hopes up. ;b If you don't hear from me until Wednesday or Thursday, assume it's because they were lying. I'll have a lot of writing time while I'm away, though (I hope, hope, hope), so I'll probably get a good deal into the story. This is especially good news, because I'll be heading off to _college_ (oh no!) on the twenty-fourth, and who knows what my situation will be like up there. I'd really like to finish this story before I head off, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it (my stories do tend to be very long, even if I don't want them to be, maybe even especially then). But, don't worry, that doesn't mean that I won't finish it! Just stick around! (:  
Love, love, love all you reviewers! :D If my responses seem sort of incoherent and have lots of smiley faces and exclamation points, it's because I'm giddy with love. You make me so happy!! Drop me a line, don't be shy; I love to ramble on about the Joker. (:  
Review please? Pretty, pretty please? (: I'd really appreciate it!


	6. Innocence

**Two Notes**: One of my reviewers asked if this was supposed to follow TDK's plot exactly, and I thought that was a good question, so I figured I'd answer that here. Short answer: no. Long answer: this takes place a bit before TDK starts and veers off in a different direction because the Joker meets Rachel first. I'm still including Maroni's trial in here because, well, I could have made up a new mob boss for them to prosecute, but I figured that the timing was so close that I might as well just use him. Also, two reviewers asked if the Joker knows that Bruce is Batman. No, he doesn't, although he knows that _a _Bruce is Batman. I figure that her caller ID would only have his first name, and there are more than likely quite a few Bruces in a city as large as Gotham.

Hope that cleared up any confusion! (: On with the story!

&

"Court adjourned." The judge banged down her gavel and stood.

The minute her black robe disappeared into her chambers, Harvey turned to Rachel and muttered, "Well, that didn't work out as well as I thought it would."

Rachel sighed, gathering up her papers. "There was no way we could have known that the witness would be so…uncooperative."

"Hostile, more like." Harvey leaned against the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't try to hide his frustration. "I honestly don't know what we're going to do now, Rachel."

She shoved folders into her bag. "Well, just go back to plan A."

"Plan A." He snorted. "We had no plan A. Unless you have a video hidden in that bag of yours showing Maroni giving orders for a hit or selling drugs to children, I think you and I both know that we're not going to put him away anytime soon."

Rachel crossed her arms. "Whatever happened to the optimistic Harvey Dent that the people of Gotham chose to clean up this city?"

He looked up at her, smiling ruefully. "Oh, please, Rachel," he said, his voice bitter. "We both know that he never existed."

"_Harvey_." She couldn't believe it. Harvey had been the only person in Gotham who seemed to believe that the city would one day find peace. He was the city's knight in shining armor, and now he was just _giving up?_ "Don't say things like that."

He looked away, crossing his arms defensively. "It's true," he said, his voice quiet enough that those few who still remained in the courtroom wouldn't hear them. "I'm a sham, Rachel. I lied, I lied to everyone. Gotham can't be saved, at least not by me."

"Well, then," she said coldly, "what are you planning to do?"

"I don't know…" A faint, mischievous grin crossed his lips. "I was thinking of moving to Metropolis. I hear crime isn't so bad over there."

Rachel couldn't keep the anger out of her voice, and she didn't bother trying. "That isn't funny, Harvey. These people _need_ you—"

"I know," he said abruptly. Meeting her accusing stare for a few long seconds, he sighed and looked down at his hands. "I know. I'm sorry. Just a moment of weakness. Forget I ever said anything."

But she couldn't forget. It was out there now, how he really felt about this whole business, and it frightened Rachel more than anything that the one man she thought could fix it all wasn't even going to try.He looked eager to change the subject. "How are your bruises?"

Rachel wasn't so willing to let him off the hook. "Fine."

Harvey reached his hand out suddenly, fingers brushing lightly across her cheek. "You did a pretty good job covering them; I can hardly see this one." But he wasn't looking at her bruise; his eyes never left hers.

"Rachel."

Harvey snapped his hand away from her as if he'd been electrocuted.

"Bruce," Rachel said breathlessly, thrown more than a little off-balance. "What—what are you doing here?"

Bruce smiled winningly, letting himself through the gate to give her a quick one-armed hug. "I took the day off work." He added in explanation, as if it was supposed to make her feel better, "Just came to see you in action."

"Oh," she said. "Lovely."

After a brief, tense silence, Bruce glanced for the first time at Harvey. "I don't believe we've ever met."

Rachel looked over to Harvey; he was scowling. He'd always been very vocal about his opinion of Bruce Wayne, about how he was useless and was only making the city worse, about how he couldn't ever compare to his dead father… Rachel never bothered arguing with him, because what could she say? That Bruce spent his nights purging Gotham's streets of the city's most dangerous criminals? No. So she stayed silent while Harvey ripped Bruce apart to his heart's content. Of course, she never thought that they would ever meet.

_This_, she thought, _will be painful._

"Harvey," she said, giving him a look that she hoped, hoped, hoped he would understand: _Don't make an ass of yourself_. "This is Bruce Wayne. Bruce—" She gave Bruce an equally stern glare: _Play nice_. "—this is Harvey Dent."

Bruce put out his hand, and after a very brief pause, Harvey took it.

"Glad to finally meet you." Bruce's smile was flawless, polite, but—to Rachel's eyes—mocking.

Harvey, not to be outdone, smiled tensely. "Yes," he said. "I've heard so much about you on the news, it's like I already know you."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "I didn't peg you as a tabloid reader."

"Oh, well, you know, standing in those long lines at the grocery store… what else is there to do?" Bruce laughed at this, and Harvey followed along, but it was painfully forced.

They were still shaking hands. The grip they had on each other looked painful, but Rachel wouldn't have known it looking at them: they appeared completely composed, relaxed, the only strange thing about their actions being that a few minutes had passed and they hadn't loosened their hold on each other.

Finally, though, Bruce clapped Harvey on his shoulder and released his hand. "You're a good sport."

Harvey laughed, but didn't say a word. Rachel noticed how he inconspicuously stretched out his aching hand by his leg, where Bruce couldn't see.

"How long were you watching?" Rachel asked, hoping to relieve some of the tension in the air.

"Oh, the whole time. I even got a seat," he said, grinning. "One of the many perks of being famous."

"I'm sure," Harvey said dryly, cutting in before Rachel could reply. "Maybe we should have you deliver our closing statement, charm the jury. I'm sure they would do whatever _Bruce_ _Wayne_ told them to do."

Bruce's smile dropped. "Maybe I'd better leave that to you." A bit more soberly, he said, "I really respect what you're doing for Gotham, Dent. It's a difficult job, and I'd say you're doing excellently with what you have."

Harvey looked like he didn't know how to take that. Hesitantly, he said, "Thank you."

Bruce shot Rachel a quick look, victorious: _See? I can be polite._ But his brows drew together quickly, and he squinted at her. "Are those bruises?" His eyes shot accusingly to Harvey, but only for a moment.

But Rachel saw the direction of his thoughts, saw it very clearly. She bristled. "Our witness came to me."

Bruce's eyes widened. "When?"

"Last night." She didn't add that her little adopted criminal had chaperoned him there; no one needed to know.

"Shit." Bruce looked visibly upset, probably beating himself up for not keeping watch outside her window, just in case. "Are you all right?"

She smiled thinly. "Yeah. It's nothing a few ice packs and some aspirin can't fix."

"Maybe it's time to think about moving," he said quietly. "You _have_ been having a lot of these sorts of problems recently."

"_A lot?_" Harvey echoed, eyes darting between them.

There was one subject that Harvey and Bruce could agree on: her safety. As the two of them stared at her, silently willing her to give in, to rent another apartment—or worse, to move in with one of them—Rachel wondered briefly if maybe she liked them better when they didn't get along.

Rachel stared Bruce down. It wasn't fair of him to bring this up in front of Harvey. It would be harder to shoot down his proposals without sounding like a complete bitch. "Moving wouldn't change anything. It's who I am, what I do, that draws them to me. They will find me, no matter where I live," she said. "There's no point in running away from my problems."

"There are some problems, Rachel," Bruce said quietly, "that you _should_ run from. Sometimes that's all you can do."

"Oh, like you would know." Bruce was about the most stubborn person she knew. Most people, when someone they love is murdered, just learn to live with it, maybe even one day forgive the murderer, maybe not. But they continue on with their lives, in their way. Bruce, though… Bruce confronted his problems head on, to the point of stupidity.

"I think I would know. I ran away from my problems for seven years, didn't I?"

Rachel snapped her mouth shut so hard her teeth hurt; the throbbing pain magnified the dull headache that had been her constant companion since the night before. That was a low blow. She didn't like to think of those years, all those years when she'd come to accept that Bruce was rotting in the bottom of a river somewhere. Those were dark years, numb years, and they still hurt, a sharp pain somewhere deep in her chest.

Bruce's eyes were hard, but as he watched her face fall, he softened. He turned to Harvey, who was staring on in frustration. "I'm really sorry about this, but could I steal Rachel for the rest of the afternoon?"

Harvey drew back, scowling again. "We still have some things to go over…"

"I'm sure you do," Bruce said, "and I wouldn't even dream of asking this favor… but we have some pressing family business that we need to attend to. It really can't wait."

_Family business?_ Rachel stared at Bruce, at a complete loss. But he looked so completely serious that she wondered if something was wrong, something that she didn't know about.

Harvey glanced over at her to gauge her reaction. When he saw the anxiety contorting her features, he gave in. "Well, all right."

"I'm really sorry, Harvey." And she was. It was the third time in as many days that she'd neglected her job. If she had been anyone other than the assistant district attorney, she might rejoice at the free afternoon, but she couldn't help but wonder if they would lose their case because of her.

But Harvey smiled at her, if a bit wearily. "It's all right. I can handle it. You just go take care of whatever it is, so that you can focus on the trial from here on out."

"Thanks," she said, picking up her bag. "I really owe you."

"I know. And don't think I won't collect on it, either."

There was that tired smile again. Rachel worried about him, worried that maybe he was working himself to death. Whatever his doubts might have been about his ability to save Gotham, he certainly made up for them by how hard he worked.

But before she could say anything, Bruce gently slipped the strap of her bag off her shoulder and onto his own. Rachel glanced over to him; he was already drifting away back toward the gate, watching her.

"Well," she said, "I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Yeah. I hope everything works out all right."

"Right." She hesitated, feeling like she should say something else. But when nothing came, she said, "Bye," and followed Bruce out into the hallway. After they passed a group of people in the hall, Rachel asked nervously, "Is anything wrong?"

He glanced over at her. "Hm?"

"You said that we had some _pressing family business_."

"Oh," Bruce said. "That. I lied."

"_What?_" Rachel stopped in her tracks, waiting until Bruce turned around to face her. "Maybe I haven't made myself perfectly clear: this is probably the biggest trial that I will ever prosecute. I can't just keep missing days right and left." She huffed. "I'm going back."

Bruce caught her elbow and turned her to face him. "I _know_ that this is important to you, Rachel. But we need to talk. Your safety is more important than a trial. You'll get another chance at Maroni. I promise."

Rachel looked doubtfully back down the hall. Harvey needed all the help he could get, and she should have been there right by his side, doing what she could to put this man behind bars. But she wouldn't be able to help him if she were dead. Or at least that's how she rationalized it.

Bruce tugged lightly on her arm, leading her to the doors to the street. Last chance to turn back.

But at the door, Bruce snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her against his side. "I'm really proud of you, you know."

Rachel stumbled, her hip colliding with his. The blood rushed to her cheeks. "Thank you," she said quietly, caught off-guard.

The paparazzi were waiting for them out front. Bruce opened the door to a wall of sound and flashing lights, and Rachel hesitated, shocked. She'd never had that many people look at her at once, not even in the courtroom.

But Bruce's arm tightened around her waist, and he led her forward firmly, keeping her pressed against his side. He smiled charmingly, avoiding their questions with practiced ease while still managing to look completely relaxed.

Rachel felt horribly out of place. She wasn't glamorous like his usual girls—beautiful, young models, wearing expensive clothing and jewelry. Compared to them, she felt absolutely frumpy, wearing her usual dress suit and sensible shoes. Of course it was all an act to keep what he really did a secret, but Rachel couldn't help but wonder if Bruce heartily enjoyed having a pretty young thing or two or three always on his arm.

Apparently, seeing Bruce Wayne with a normal human being was cover-story material. The paparazzi surged forward, jostling in front of her to get the best picture. But Bruce held them off with one firm hand held out in front of him and a winning smile frozen on his lips.

When they finally reached the car, Bruce pulled open the door, holding her hand until she was situated comfortably in the seat. The moment the door closed, all noise was shut off, although she could still see the mass of bodies pressing around the car, trying to get one last picture of the famous Bruce Wayne. She leaned gratefully against the seat, watching as he walked around the front of the car, giving the cameras one last smile and wave. He looked completely unruffled.

Sliding into the car, he smiled apologetically at Rachel. "I wasn't expecting that. I don't know how they find me."

"Well," she pointed out, "you did park your car out front."

The engine growled to life. "I guess that's true." But he was still smiling.

Rachel gripped her seat as he sped out into traffic, weaving between the slower cars. He took a sharp left, and her shoulder slammed against the car door. When he stopped suddenly at the next light, seatbelt biting into her neck, she said, a bit shakily, "I think I see why Alfred doesn't let you drive."

Bruce glanced over at her, grinning. "He put up a fight today. I almost had to tie him down."

"That's a bit unfair. Alfred doesn't stand a chance against you."

Bruce slammed on the gas, and they shot forward. He looked completely calm. "Don't pity the man too much; he has a nasty right hook."

Rachel couldn't help herself; the corners of her mouth drew up into an automatic grin. The idea of Alfred, a proper British gentleman, fighting Bruce, who could probably deadlift more than the butler's body weight—it was a match-up that just shouted disaster.

Before she knew it, they were outside city limits. The countryside sped past her window in a blur, and now that there weren't many other cars on the road, Rachel allowed herself to ease up on her tense grip. Very gradually, the car slowed until they were traveling the speed limit.

"I wasn't joking when I said that you need to think about moving."

Rachel sighed, glancing over at him; he met her gaze and held it for a second before snapping his eyes back to the road. "I'm not going to move," she said, leaning back into the seat stubbornly.

His hands gripped the wheel tightly. "You're in danger where you are, Rachel. If one criminal was able to find you, others will too. I can't always be there to protect you."

She wished she'd just stayed with Harvey. At least he might have been constrained enough by manners to let the subject go. "Oh, and where would I move?" she asked, voice sharp. "It's dangerous living anywhere in this city."

"You could move back to Wayne Manor."

She should have seen this coming. Weakly, she said, "Bruce…"

"I'm serious."

"I know you are." They approached the familiar wrought-iron gates; Rachel could see the restored mansion rising imposingly from the long, sloping lawns.

"Wayne Manor is the safest place in Gotham."

"Because you're there," she said flatly.

"That's right."

"Bruce, no." But he had a point. The Manor was more secure than the mayor's home, partly because Bruce was a bit paranoid and partly because he would really need that protection if word ever got out about his real identity.

"Why not?" He took his foot off the gas, and the car eased to a halt in the front driveway. He looked frustrated. "It would be like old times, with all of us under the same roof. Don't you miss that?"

She looked away, certain that if she met his eyes again, she wouldn't be able to refuse. "Of course I do. But we're not kids anymore, Bruce. We couldn't…"

He felt her reluctance crumbling, and he jumped on it. "Why not?" he said again.

"Because…" She knew they shouldn't, but logic and reason eluded her.

He rested his hand on the nape of her neck so she turned to look at him; his calloused fingers raised goosebumps on her skin. "I miss you."

Her heart ached. She couldn't deny to herself that she missed him too. Batman may have been a symbol of good, of hope in Gotham city, but to her, Bruce represented something else: innocence. Even though he made his life battling evil, seeing human beings at their worst every night, he never lost his innocence and his belief that there was still good in the world.

That was what she loved about him most.

She just wished she had his faith.

Rachel looked down, feeling his thumb run lightly across her jaw. "I do, too. I miss you," she said quietly.

"You don't have to decide to move back now. Just know that I'm going to be working on you until you say yes." He bent over, pulling her gently towards him, and kissed her forehead. "Come on," he said, the smile lightening his voice. "Alfred is probably worried that I've crashed the Rolls by now."

&

Alfred stood at the counter, mixing a strange-colored concoction while Bruce and Rachel watched on. "I make this same drink for Master Wayne whenever he's had a particularly busy night." He set the glass in front of her on the table. "I trust that you aren't going to start making a habit of this?"

"No. I'll leave that to Bruce." Rachel eyed the drink doubtfully, shooting a glance over at Bruce, who made a face. She sniffed it, the scent a frightening mixture of spices and alcohol. She took a careful sip, sputtered; her throat burned painfully.

"I should add that it's a bit strong," Alfred said, watching her.

Rachel's tongue was buzzing too hard for her to reply, although she did glare at him through watery eyes.

"It's easiest if you just swallow it all at once," Bruce said. Rachel couldn't help but note that his sympathetic smile was tinged with amusement.

She took his advice, tossing back the caustic mixture, and waiting long enough for the burn to subside before she said, "If you have to drink this every morning, Bruce, I can't see why you haven't meekly hung up your cape for good yet."

Bruce grinned. "Because it actually helps."

And it did. Rachel realized with a shock that, not only had her headache quickly melted away and her other aches and pains faded with it, but her thoughts were also clearer, sharper, her mind less jumbled and confused. Although her throat still ached.

"Thank you," she said, a bit grudgingly.

Alfred smiled but didn't say anything, clearing the glass away from the table and silently slipping out of the room.

Rachel leaned her cheek on her hand, glancing across the table at Bruce. She didn't like the look he was giving her: Bruce was gone, Batman had taken his place.

"What really happened last night, Rachel?"

She lifted her head, surprised, heart thumping hard against her ribcage. If Bruce found out that the person that had put her in a potentially deadly situation had been the Joker, she was sure that she would be moving into Wayne Manor that night, whether she wanted to or not. "What do you mean?"

Bruce leaned his elbows against the table. "I mean that it's all right that you're telling that story to Dent and everyone else, but I know better," he said. "I know that if he'd really found you, you'd be a lot more upset about it. There's something you're not telling me." He paused, searching her face. "You didn't go out looking for trouble, did you?"

Rachel laughed unsteadily, relieved. "I'm not _that_ stupid."

He relaxed a bit. "I still don't like it. I've dealt with that man before, and he isn't one to just give himself in."

"Well, he didn't exactly _give himself in_," Rachel muttered, tenderly feeling one of the tender bumps on her skull.

"I know. But he's high up in the mob's hierarchy; he would have sent someone else in his place to—" He paused, staring at her very seriously.

"To kill me?" Rachel's voice was quiet, just barely calm.

Bruce looked stricken, but only for a moment. Getting himself back under control, he moved over to her side of the table, so he was sitting right next to her, leaning his warm shoulder against hers. "He looked pretty beat up," he said, staring down at his twisting fingers. "There's something wrong there."

It would be so easy to just tell him everything, to just come out finally and tell him what she'd done, what she'd gotten herself into. She needed only to say the four magical words—_I need your help_—and she knew that Bruce would be at her side without any hesitation. After all the worry that she'd put him through after entering into her deal with the Joker, Rachel felt she owed him complete honesty. Especially since she wouldn't be able to tell him the truth after either of them died.

The Joker's reedy laughter echoed in her mind: _Special delivery_.

Rachel shuddered involuntarily.

Bruce wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "Sorry," he murmured, leaning his head against hers. "I guess we can talk about this later."

In her mind, Rachel was shouting, _No! No! Tell him now!_ But she forced those thoughts aside, smiling at him. "I think that would be best."

He rubbed his hand along her arm, never taking his eyes from hers. Then, suddenly, he stood. Laughing, he said, "I almost forgot. There's something I want to show you." He helped her up, leading her down the hallway, up the stairs.

Rachel gripped tightly onto his hand, trying to force the guilt down. But maybe it would be better if she didn't say anything. This was her problem, not Bruce's; her battle, not Batman's. She couldn't keep leaning on Bruce like this, if she ever wanted to be able to stand on her own. Bruce had enough on his plate already. It wasn't right to make Batman keep cleaning up after her mistakes.

Anyway, he was trying so hard to prove to her that the Bruce she once knew was still there, and maybe he wasn't always succeeding, but she loved him for trying. If only he knew that she wasn't the same Rachel he thought she was.

She clenched her jaw as Bruce opened a door, and bright light flooded into the dark hallway.

Yes. She would handle the Joker. Alone.

&

**Author's Note**: So, apparently they _were_ lying to me. / Internet in town was expensive (damn them for advertising wireless access!) and extremely slow where we were staying (it took probably forty minutes to load each page). Also, I didn't really finish this chapter until this morning, ha. So I'm really, really sorry that this is being posted so much later than I'd hoped. At least you're getting it now, right? Updates will be back on a regular schedule for the next ten days at least.  
You have no idea how happy I was when I got home and checked my mail. :D So many wonderful (and helpful) reviews!! Keep them coming! I am in awe, you guys. I love you, I love you, I love you. (((: I hope you liked chapter six; tell me what you think! Don't be shy! (:  
The Joker stars in the next chapter, so you have that to look forward to. Also, see, I'm using Harvey! Of course, Rachel's life is about to be turned upside-down, so I'm not sure how often she'll get in to work, however much she wants to.


	7. Scars

**A Note**: Sorry this took so long to write!  
I should take a moment to remind you not to take everything the Joker says at face-value. The Rachel-centric narration gives the interpretation of his actions a bit of a bias. He's a manipulative little sociopath, isn't he? Hopefully that becomes clear at the end of the chapter. That is all. (((:  
Hope you enjoy this chapter! Woo hoo, Joker!

&

To say that Rachel was used to being welcomed home every day by the Joker would have been a complete lie. Every time she opened her front door and saw his terrible, smiling face ready to greet her, her heart stumbled a few beats, and her stomach twisted unpleasantly, practically jumping out her mouth. But she was resigned to it, to him. Ever since the night he saved her life, he'd been a regular visitor, usually at night and always without asking.

At least he left no misconceptions in her mind as to why he was there: he was still waiting for her to fulfill her side of the bargain. He wanted Batman.

That night, Rachel unlocked her front door, the dread already building in the pit of her stomach before she'd even stepped out of the elevator. But the apartment was completely dark. She paused on the threshold, heart jumping unevenly. With the door shut behind her, the only illumination came from the streetlamp outside her window. She flipped on the light to chase away the demons in her mind.

Was he not there? Was he gone?

Her breath felt constricted, as if a huge weight pressed down on her chest, crushing her. She wasn't sure if she was so anxious because he might jump out from behind the door to strangle her any second or because she'd grown so used to his presence that arriving home to find him gone was like losing a part of her. She told herself it was the former.

That was when she saw two worn shoes poking up over the arm of her couch.

Breathing was suddenly much easier. She told herself it was because she could see him, and he was no longer a hidden threat, watching her somewhere unseen. But part of her was happy to see him, and Rachel did her best to hide that side of her away. That side of herself frightened her, the Rachel that was ruthless and cruel and who would like nothing better than to kill Maroni.

Shutting the door behind her, Rachel approached the Joker cautiously—let a sleeping dog lie, after all. She peeked over the back of the couch, half expecting him to surge up any second and slit her throat. But he was asleep, fast asleep. It was unnatural for him to look so peaceful. His almost constant smile was gone; instead, he was frowning, his brows drawn together from some dreamed annoyance. He kept his arms his arms tightly crossed high up on his chest, like some kind of armor. His cheek pressed against one tense shoulder, smudging the oily makeup.

He looked so vulnerable.

Rachel leaned her elbows against the wood, staring down at him and trying to convince herself that the man she saw before her was the same as the man she knew—violent, sadistic, unpredictable. The two images didn't fit together.

The Joker shifted suddenly, licking his lips and grunting in his sleep as he turned away from the light. In the new position, his body gradually relaxed as completely as it had before, his chest rising slowly and evenly with each breath.

Quietly, Rachel backed away, finally stopping when she ran into the kitchen counter. All she could see from that angle were his feet, the thin, motley ankles poking out from too-short pants. She knew that she should be frightened, and the fear was there, but she crushed it, forced it further into the back of her mind, and she felt calm.

Maybe the peace of mind just came from knowing that she was all alone now, that she wouldn't be bringing anyone else into this struggle. She only had herself to worry about, since she'd decided to keep Bruce out of it, and she was surprised to find that most of that terror had been for his safety, not her own. Rachel pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. Maybe if she told herself enough times that she wasn't afraid, it would be true.

Her stomach growled. She realized distantly that she hadn't actually eaten since breakfast, what with the trial taking a lot longer than they had expected, thanks to her completely worthless witness. And then Bruce kidnapped her, and the rest of her day was spent touring the Manor and reminiscing. The fatigue hadn't registered until that moment, when she suddenly felt the gravity of her situation upon her shoulders.

One last wary glance at the Joker, and Rachel turned her attention toward food. _I really need to go shopping one of these days_, Rachel thought absently, peering through her cabinets for something good to eat. It was really rather pitiful how little food she had around her apartment. Expired macaroni and cheese, stale cereal, several unlabeled cans of food; her refrigerator was even more barren.

She paused when she saw the cans of Campbell's soup, her anxiety briefly taking hold again. The Joker had consumed it so hungrily. She vividly remembered how the thin soup had dripped down his chin like blood when he smiled up at her.

Rachel reached past the cans and grabbed a bag of pasta.

Even though he was silent—she could just barely hear his deep breaths where she stood—she couldn't help but be painfully aware of the Joker's presence. Her time was almost up, she knew it. The Joker wasn't a patient man when it came to getting what he wanted. She could only put off fulfilling her side of the deal so long—and now that she'd decided to keep Bruce safe…well, she wasn't looking forward to breaking the news.

_He'll kill you, a_ faint voice whispered in her thoughts. _Save yourself._

And Rachel knew that it was true.

"You've cooked them too long." His voice was right by her ear.

Rachel jumped, and before she could twist away, he gripped one arm around her waist, his fingers splayed out over her stomach. Holding her securely against him, the Joker waited until she stopped struggling. Then, snatching the wooden spoon from her hand, he poked at the soft pasta cooking away under the roiling surface of the murky water. "Look at them," he said, moving her closer to the flame. "They look like… like _maggots_ or something." He laughed at this, a quiet laugh that she felt throughout her whole body. "Do you honestly expect me to eat this crap?"

"I didn't make it for you." Her voice was meant to sound tough, but its unnaturally high, wavering tone revealed her for what she really was: weak and frightened.

"You _didn't?_" The Joker chuckled softly, his tone darker. "Well, I'm hurt. I thought we had a good thing going." Slowly, he reached into his coat pocket. "I guess I was wrong."

Rachel knew what that meant. Straining, she twisted herself around in his grip to face him, placing her hands flat on his chest and pushing as hard as she could. His smile twisted, his bright red lips spreading out in a wide grimace across his face. Suddenly, he let her go, and Rachel stumbled backwards a few steps, clutching at the counter to keep herself upright.

The Joker was on her in a second, pressing her spine into the counter's sharp edge, his hand gripping her throat so hard she couldn't breathe. He was grinning wide now, lips parted in laughter.

But Rachel heard nothing, just the loud thumping of her heart in her ears, her panicked wheezes as the oxygen gradually escaped her lungs. He reached into his coat again, and Rachel screwed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see Death as it came for her.

But then his grip on her throat loosened.

Her eyes snapped open reflexively as she sucked in deep gulps of air, collapsing backwards against the countertop.

The Joker loomed over her, grinning like a madman. His head obscured one of the overhead bulbs, and a halo of light surrounded him. He held out something in front of her, something that was obviously not a knife.

It was a rose.

"Ta-da," he said. He was only able to keep a straight face for a few seconds, because then an explosive cackle forced its way from between his lips, and he doubled over. He wasn't completely unaware, though; he kept her boxed in, both hands planted firmly on the counter on either side of her. Each time he tried to get his laughter under control enough to talk, the high-pitched giggle started all over again, rendering him completely unintelligible. Finally, gasping for breath, he rested his forehead against her shoulder, his stringy hair brushing against her neck.

"Ah," he sighed. "You should have seen your face." He looked up at her, his amusement gradually fading into something else, something dangerous. He reached one hand up, running his knuckles across her cheek. "Aw, come on now, princess. Did I scare you?" He pressed himself against her. "You're always so jumpy. You just need to _relax_—"

Rachel took advantage of the moment, slipping out from beneath him. But his fingers twisted in her hair, and he tugged downward sharply. She overbalanced, her momentum sending her crashing to the floor. Her hands slid slickly over the floor.

_Blood_.

The thought registered in the primitive part of her mind first, the part of her that dealt only in black and white, absolutes. She was _bleeding_. Had he _cut_ her? Was she going to _die?_ It wasn't until the rational side of her caught up that she slowly began to realize that, no, she wasn't in pain; no, she wasn't injured; no, that wasn't her blood.

She looked up at him in horror. That was when Rachel realized how similar he looked to his appearance that first night. The face paint made it harder to see, but he couldn't hide it: he looked weak. His stance was defensive, he leaned heavily to one side, and his breathing appeared labored. Of course, just because he was injured didn't mean she felt safe: even drained of blood, he was still able to push her around without much effort.

"Did you get stabbed again?" Rachel never thought she would hope that the blood on the Joker was someone else's. But she was sure she couldn't deal with another one of his wounds, not tonight.

His grin dropped, and he let her go. "No," he said, looking annoyed.

Rachel backed up against the cabinet doors, clutching her aching scalp. "Then…then what happened?"

"Stitches." He motioned vaguely in the area of his knife wound. "They came out. You really need to get better thread, princess. I'm not sure how your clothes stay together, if your thread snaps that easily."

She stared up at him, feeling a little bit queasy. Her mouth felt suddenly very dry, her throat simultaneously choking with saliva. "You mean… you mean that you ripped open your wound?"

He laughed sharply. "You make it sound like I did it on purpose."

It was entirely possible that he had, but Rachel didn't say anything, couldn't say anything. The only thing she was completely conscious of was his blood drying on her hands. "How?" she asked weakly.

He grinned, lips pressed together tightly. "Found someone lurking around your apartment when I got here. He wanted to play."

Rachel froze, her spine pressing painfully into the wood. _Someone lurking_… Oh God. The mob knew where she lived. Her voice barely above a whisper, she said, "What did you do to him?"

The Joker laughed.

Rachel pushed herself up and sprinted past him to the door. She wasn't sure what good running would do. It wasn't as if he wouldn't find her anyway. But she had to get away from him, at least for now; the smell of blood was so overpowering she could taste it.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her back into him so their faces were only inches apart. Holding her arms tightly while she struggled, he said, "I'm just trying to protect you. Obviously, Batman's not doing his job."

"_Protect_ me?"

"Yes, of course," he purred. "Wouldn't want to let anyone else have the fun of _killing_ you, now, would we?" He pushed her away, further into the room and away from the door. But rather than coming after her as she'd expected, he leaned heavily against the back of a chair, looking tired. "Now," he said, his voice rough, "I need you to sew me back up."

"What?" Rachel wavered, leaning her weight against the couch.

"I want you to stitch me up."

"But… but you did it last time." And he'd seemed to enjoy himself, too.

"Yes," he said slowly, as if speaking to a child, "but this time, I want you do to it."

She gasped, "Why?"

"Think of this as a character-building exercise," he said, tugging his shirttails out from his pants. "You really do need to get over your fear of blood."

His exposed flesh was stained red, and where it wasn't bloody, it was an inflamed, angry pink. She met his eyes, more as a way to avoid having to look down at the inflamed wound than as a show of defiance. "I'm _not_ afraid of blood."

"All right, then. Prove me wrong."

She clenched her jaw, staring him down. She had probably five more miniature sewing kits in the medicine cabinet alone. The rubbing alcohol was on the top right shelf, gathering dust. She had some gauze that she'd never though she would need to use stuck in a coffee cup on one of the shelves. Everything was prepared, except for Rachel. She couldn't do it. Rachel closed her eyes, looked away. "I—I can't. No."

"Well." He moved around the chair and sat down heavily. "I guess I'll just bleed to death, then."

His death would solve a lot of her problems. The Joker had almost gotten her killed once, threatened to do so several times since. And he wanted Bruce. The world wouldn't mourn his loss, Rachel least of all. "All right," she said, "but could you at least not bleed to death in my apartment?"

He leaned his head back, smirking. If it hadn't been for the way his whole body seemed to relax into the cushions, the way his smile seemed to falter, his posture might have been confident, dangerous. But Rachel saw the exhaustion in his eyes. He would die if she didn't do anything.

Very softly, he said, "I never said I wouldn't take you with me."

_Empty threats_, she thought. She hoped. If he'd wanted to kill her, he would have done so already. But maybe he was just waiting for the right moment, so that he could have the last laugh.

"You won't take me if I get to you first."

He laughed at this, holding his side, his fingers visibly slick with fresh blood. "A race, then?"

But she wouldn't kill him, no matter what it came down to. Maybe Bruce was right—no, she knew he was right: she was a bleeding heart. But she saw the goodness in him, hidden very far deep under his mask. She wanted to be the one to save him, just as he'd saved her.

He closed his eyes, turning his head away from her, apparently not really caring what she finally decided. A flash of pain crossed his face, and he shifted in the chair stiffly, one hand still clutched over the freshly bleeding wound.

Rachel sighed. "If I'm going to stitch it up, it has to be somewhere easier to clean."

He opened his eyes, grinning. "I knew you'd cave." He pushed himself out of the chair with surprising ease—so much ease that she wondered just how much he was faking.

But the sight of his wound put to rest any of her doubts as to his condition. The Joker sat down on the toilet, leaning back against the bowl and pulling up the edge of his shirt with one hand. Rachel, standing a few feet away from him, almost fainted. It was infected. She hadn't had much experience dealing with knife wounds—or any kind of wounds, for that matter, except for the occasional paper cut or scrape—but she knew what an infected cut looked like. The blood oozing from it was unnaturally black, and the skin around it looked grey and dead.

But the Joker didn't seem particularly worried. "What?" he said, watching her pale face with amusement. "Afraid of getting _cooties_?"

She glared at him sharply, then grabbed a new sewing kit. Taking the bottle of rubbing alcohol down, she poured a good amount of the toxic-smelling liquid over the needle, letting it air-dry as she carefully inserted the thread through the eye.

Holding the needle gingerly between her fingers, she knelt down in front of him. A hot blush crept over her cheeks, down her neck, the way he was leering at her, like she was some girl he'd bought off the streets. If he hadn't been slowly dying, she would have left him there.

But as soon as he was satisfied that she would follow through with it, the Joker leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

Rachel sat there kneeling in front of him for a few long seconds. She wasn't ready for this, that much was certain, but what other choice did she have? By the time she _was_ ready, she would have to figure out how to quietly get rid of his body.

Taking a deep breath, she reached out, hesitantly touching the fever-hot skin around his inflamed wound, watching his face for a reaction. Nothing. She could see bits of the old stitches still imbedded in the soft flesh. The wound had obviously been torn wider—the edges looked fresh and smooth, almost as if they had been cut by a knife.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Rachel grabbed the two slippery lips of flesh between her fingers, pressing them tightly together and quickly made the first puncture.

His body stiffened, his free hand clenching into a half-fist on his knee, and all his muscles tensed. But not even a second later, he was completely relaxed again, as if nothing had ever happened.

Rachel hesitated, watching him. When he made no move to stop her, she poked the needle through the flaps of skin again, slowly pulling the thread tight. As she prepared to make the next puncture, she realized he was laughing, the wound slipping out of her grip. Glaring sharply up at him, she said, "What's so funny?"

He looked down at her critically, the condescending smile always on his lips. "You're so _timid_. Is this how you handle Batman?" He grabbed her wrist before she could recoil backwards. "Are you afraid of hurting me? Well, let me tell you something, _princess,_" he hissed, leaning closer to her. Certain that she was watching him, he ran his tongue along the insides of his scars, closing his eyes almost as if in ecstasy. "I'm a glutton for pain." Still holding her wrist, he guided the needle back to his skin and, holding the wound together between his fingers, he jabbed her hand down. Rachel bit back a cry of surprise when she felt the skin resist, break; a fresh flow of blood oozed over her fingers.

But the Joker leaned back again, resting his elbow on the toilet bowl and propping up his chin. He was smiling.

Shaken, Rachel focused back on her task, still hesitantly drawing the needle through the irritated skin. He didn't once flinch, no matter how poorly she was doing. Daring a quick glance up at his face, she saw that he looked as if he were half-asleep. His head rested heavily on his fist, pushing his scarred cheeks out of shape; his eyes were slit almost contentedly.

Quietly, she said, "How did you get them?" So she wouldn't have to look at him, she made the stitches tinier, closer together.

But out of the corner of her eye, she could see him watching her. The stiff cloth of his shirt fell back over the wound as he reached up to his face. He felt his puckered scars with bloody fingers, leaving long red smudges. "These?" His hand dropped back down, and he lifted the edge of his shirt again. "Why?" he said slowly as she finished up the last few stitches. He giggled. "Going to convince Batman to avenge me?"

She looked up and wordlessly met his eyes.

After a moment, he snorted. "Never get on the mob's bad side."

Rachel's hand hesitated only for a second. "What do you mean?"

"I refused to play their little games, and so they thought they might make me a bit more…_docile_ if they put me in my place, so to speak." He licked his lips. "They thought that they could make me a lamb by making me look like a lion." He grinned with bared teeth. "I set them straight. They didn't realize that I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"And you're still working for them? Why didn't you go to the cops?"

He burst out laughing, snatched the needle from her hand and broke the string in two. "The cops… oh, that's a good one. The cops—they wouldn't help me. They're too scared of the mob to do anything useful. They'd just put me away and hope that I'd keep quiet so they could stay on Maroni's good side." He leaned forward again, throwing the bloody needle onto the floor. "You see, princess, this thing you call _justice_ doesn't exist outside of your little fairytales. There is no such thing as a fairy godmother, no such thing as a knight in shining armor, and definitely," he said, spitting the words, "no such thing as a _happy_ _ending_." There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice when he continued. "No, I realized that a long time ago."

Rachel knew that he was speaking the truth. But the little girl in her rejected his words. There was still hope in the world. People were basically good. She would find happiness…eventually.

In that moment, for the second time that night, Rachel saw the Joker for what he truly was: just a man. He wasn't some unfeeling monster, he was a human being who had once had high hopes for the world, only to have them absolutely crushed in one terrible moment of pain.

And just like Bruce, he'd tasted the bitterness of a crime left unpunished.

Without really thinking about what she was doing, Rachel reached out and ran her fingers lightly over the scars on his cheeks. The skin was smooth and strangely cold, like she was touching ice. The soft surface of the long-healed scars couldn't hide the hard lumps of flesh beneath.

The Joker lazily met her gaze, staring at her from beneath lowered brows, amusement gone from his face. Rachel's hand froze on his cheek, and she sat very still, waiting.

Slowly, he reached his hand out, a mirror image to her own, gently running the tips of his fingers along her cheek. His hand curled tightly in her hair. He smiled, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

In a heartbeat, Rachel was splayed out on the bathroom floor, a splitting pain searing through her head where she hit the tile. She gasped, curling on her side to ride out the agony. But she felt his weight on her, crushing. Instinctively, she lashed out at him, fingers bent like claws ripping at whatever she could get her hands on.

He easily caught her wrists, holding them out to the sides, utterly harmless. "Don't tell me you _bought_ that."

"Get _off_ of me," she spat, her hurt only magnified by her shame. Of course she should have seen it; she of all people should have known.

He laughed gleefully, throwing his head back. Gripping both her wrists in one bony hand, he ran a finger roughly over her lips, trailing down her cheek until his hand gripped her throat. "So, you thought that by showing me _kindness_ and _concern_ that you would be able to _change_ me? You thought I was _harmless_?" He giggled, grinning down at her with bared teeth. "You're stupider than I thought, princess."

Rachel twisted beneath him, trying to loosen the hold he had on her neck. "I thought…" she gasped. "I just thought—"

His fingers dug into her windpipe, and she was left gaping like a fish. Tugging on her arms, he pulled her into a sitting position, held her face close to his. "What?" he said, chuckling darkly. "You thought that I'm just like you? That I'm a good person beneath this mask?" Reaching his hand down, he smeared the fresh blood on his stomach. Then, his fingers dripping red, he ran his thumb across her lips, up her cheeks in a blood-red smile. He leaned forward, pressing his cheek against hers, murmuring into her ear: "Well, guess what? I'm not."

And, gripping her cheeks tightly between his large hands, he pulled her towards his lips and kissed her. It wasn't warm and sweet like that time with Bruce. He bit her lip until it bled, holding onto it like he was trying to tear it off. She could feel the bruises forming on her cheeks, her jaws; his fingers were dangerously close to her eyes. And she could taste his blood on her tongue, mixing with her own.

She sat there, limp as a rag doll, too dazed to do much else. Distantly, Rachel noticed that her hands were free. Even more distantly, she realized that her fist was swinging up, aiming for his windpipe.

The crash of her knuckles against bone did something to wake her out of her stupor, but the Joker's violent backhand finished the job. She slammed into the tiled wall, sliding down weakly into a heap on the floor and whimpering. Pain exploded behind her eyes, black and white patches dancing in front of her vision, supernovas and black holes.

Fevered excitement burned in his eyes; through the smudged paint, his cheeks were brightly flushed. He pulled her close to him again, their lips practically touching; she felt every word. His voice dangerously quiet, he said, "I want to see Batman. I want to meet him."

Rachel stared at him, wide-eyed and terrified, but silent.

He grunted in disgust, throwing her roughly back down to the ground. Before Rachel could twist out of the way, he was back on her, pinning her arms to the floor and leaning in close. This time, though, he had a knife. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to keep the promises you make? Now, I thought we had a very clear deal. You _promised_, princess."

"No," she whispered, looking away with her eyes tightly shut. "No, I changed my mind. The deal's off." She expected another blow, but she still wasn't prepared for it, for the blinding pain that shot up through her temples.

He gripped her cheeks tightly in one hand, forcing her to look at him. "It's never that easy. Haven't you read all those stories? When you sell your soul to the Devil, it's forever." He flipped open the blade.

That was all Rachel needed to see; she shut her eyes again.

The Joker's voice was a bit calmer. "I'll say it again: I want to meet Batman. I want your half of the deal."

Batman—Bruce. His crooked smile, his quiet laugh, his strong hands: safety. He'd done so much to protect her, and now it was her turn to return the favor. Gotham needed its dark knight more than it needed her.

She liked to think of herself as a martyr. But it didn't make shaking her head any easier.

The Joker pressed the sharp knife's edge against the soft skin beneath her eye. "Now you're just trying to make me mad." He drew the blade a short distance against the flesh, drawing blood. "Normally, I would love to play this game with you, but unfortunately, today, I'm flat out of patience."

"You can't kill me," she whimpered, her voice wavering weakly.

At least he pulled the knife away. But Rachel tensed up again when she felt his warm tongue on her fresh wound. Next to her ear, he purred, "And why not?"

She was trembling uncontrollably, her muscles convulsing and twitching. "Because—" She choked, her throat spasming. "Because, I'm the only one who knows who Batman is."

He laughed quietly, and she felt every amused shudder as if it were her own. "See, this is where your argument fails, princess." The knife was back, the flat of the blade caressing her cheek. Nipping playfully at her still-bleeding lip, he said, emphasizing every word, "I don't need you. There will always be other ways to find him."

The scream started as a low whine from deep in her chest. The tears came next, blinding her already hazy vision, choking her and making her throat burn. She opened her mouth, convulsively sucking in a breath of air, and then the sound exploded from her lungs.

The Joker was quick to silence her, slamming his hand down over her mouth, pressing her cheek against the cold tile floor. Her breaths came in deep, frightened gasps, the scream never fully quieting. But the Joker slammed his knuckles into her windpipe, and her scream escaped as a ragged wheeze, and she was left gasping.

He shoved the knife into her mouth, the cold blade pressing against the soft skin inside her cheek. Rachel stopped struggling.

Gently brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, he smiled down at her. "Since I like you so much, I'll give you one more chance."

The knife bit into her skin, and Rachel winced, trying hard to hold still. It would be so easy to tell him where to find Bruce, so easy, and then she would be alive. A bit worse for wear, but alive.

But she could see it in his eyes: he had no intention of leaving her apartment while she was still breathing, not this time.

Carefully, she shook her head to either side, just a quick, minute jerk in each direction.

The Joker sighed. "What a waste, princess. You _were_ such a beautiful woman. But where will this get you, hm? Will Batman jump in through the window to save you? Will Batman follow you down to Hell to convince the Devil to give you a second chance? Do you honestly believe that _Batman_ would give his life up for _yours_?" He laughed. "You really _are_ a fool."

Rachel couldn't hold back the sob.

"Oh, shh, shh, shh." He roughly smoothed her tears away. "Don't cry, princess. You know, you really are just too serious. I can help you, though." His hand drifted down to clamp around her jaw, keeping her in place. "Now you'll be smiling all the time. Now," he said, the laughter building in his throat, "now, you'll be just like _me_."

The knife sliced through flesh, and Rachel's face was on fire, the searing white-hot pain blinding her to anything and everything. She cried out in strangled agony, coughing as sharp, bitter blood choked her, rushing down her throat.

The Joker gave her one last pleased grin before he disappeared behind the blackness that took her vision.

&

**Author's Note**: Yes! It's done! I was actually really looking forward to writing this chapter, and so I was a bit surprised when it was so, so hard to write. I feel almost like the violence is getting a bit repetitive; and, I mean, how many ways can you describe the Joker smiling? Okay, probably lots, but I'm not all that creative. This was originally going to take place two chapters from now, but it just seemed to fit better here. The Joker, I think, wouldn't be one to wait too long to get what he wants. And then the chapter took a strange turn at the end, as you have just read. I wasn't planning anything like that in my outlines, but I was realizing while writing that there were only a few logical ways that the Joker could let her live. That was one of them. Also, I just really like scars.  
I really wanted to get the Joker right in this chapter, since I wasn't too happy with him in the previous one. He was just a bit off, somehow. Hopefully I did better this time around. ((: I'm not entirely happy with it, but I could fret over characterization and flow for days, and it wouldn't get me anywhere.  
If I haven't replied to your review on the last chapter yet, never fear, that's up next on my list. I'll be away from my computer for a bit, but then that's the very next thing I'll be doing. I just wanted to get this out there. (:  
Anyway, I really really hope that I pulled this off and that it's not too bad. I'm anxious to hear what you guys think (like, literally anxious)! Please tell me what you think. Feedback is welcomed and loved.


	8. Nightmare

**A Note**: To all of you who expressed disappointment that Rachel now has scars: sorry, but that's just how the story goes. ;b Any sort of relationship the Joker has with anyone will inevitably end up with the other person either dying or being horribly disfigured or going insane. But more on that later.

&

Rachel was conscious of the pain even before she woke up.

Her dreams were violent, full of anger and fear. They darted in and out of an oppressive haze that slowed her thoughts and left her vulnerable, like lightning out of thunderheads.

_Faces, terrible faces grinning at her from all sides, a sea of them—_

_A knife held by a disembodied hand, slamming down onto a cutting block to—_

_A room filled with thick, viscous blood, and—_

_Her mouth sewn up, the stitches tight and woven through her lips—_

_Darkness. Complete and total darkness, except—_

The one thread that linked them was the pain. It was everywhere and nowhere at once, fleeing to some other indistinct area on her body the minute she tried to inspect it closer. The pain had infected her, and like cancerous cells, it grew and grew and grew and slowly killed her from the inside out. It was poison coursing through her veins, toxin she was slowly inhaling with every labored breath, blood oozing out of her with alarming speed.

Rachel had to fight her way back to the surface before she drowned. It took effort, but she finally forced herself away from the darkness of her mind and into the solid, safe real world. Faintly, she heard a steady beeping noise, muffled voices, quick footsteps. It took effort, but she was able to force her eyes open. This wasn't home. Rachel turned her head to the side, concentrating very hard on the task. Her muscles seemed to want nothing more than to relax into another terrifying dream, but she fought it.

She saw him before she felt his grip around her hand. Bruce was fast asleep, his cheek pressed against his shoulder, his head resting against his chair's uncomfortable-looking wooden backing. He held one of her limp hands in his, resting it on the blankets next to her. He looked exhausted, she thought, like he hadn't been sleeping for days. She knew that it was because of her. Groggily, Rachel tried to free her hand, which turned out to be more of a struggle than it should have been.

Bruce's grip tightened, and his eyes snapped open, instinctively scanning the room before turning back to her. Concern colored his expression, scrunching his eyebrows together and bringing out the fine lines around his mouth. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice quiet and rushed. "Do you need anything? Should I get the doctor?" He half-stood out of his chair, never letting go of her hand.

"I'm fine," she wanted to say, but it came out as a strangled croak. Her throat spasmed painfully, and her mouth burned. Hesitantly, she reached her hands up to her face, feeling the thick gauze, sharp flashes of pain jolting through her whenever she put pressure on her tender skin.

Everything came back to her in a second. Quick flashes of a bloodied tile floor, a blurry man standing above her, attacked her like bats. The Joker— A strangled sob tore from her throat.

Bruce sat down again, squeezing her hand and gently brushing hair away from her eyes. When she appeared to have calmed down, he asked softly, "Do you remember what happened?"

Rachel closed her eyes, tears escaping through the lids to soak into the bloody gauze. But she opened them again, quickly—the remembered terror was all too vivid when she retreated into the darkness. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide.

He looked down at their hands, gently rubbing his thumb over her bruised knuckles. Never once looking at her, he said, "When you called… I wasn't even sure it was you. You sounded so terrified. I thought—" His voice caught, and he paused for a second, completely still, gathering himself. "I thought you were dead when I got there. So much blood." He closed his eyes.

Rachel smiled faintly—and immediately regretted it. The fresh cuts screamed in protest; she could feel each thread of her stitches pulling at the irritated skin. Instead, moving her mouth as little as possible, she whispered, "Have to do a lot more than that to get rid of me."

Bruce smiled grimly, but it faded into a worried frown so fast that Rachel was convinced that the smile had been a waking dream, a hallucination. "Who did this to you?"

Rachel froze. If she told Bruce, he would go after the Joker. But Rachel saw now what the Joker was willing to do to get what he wanted, and she feared that Bruce wouldn't escape an encounter with the man alive. Maybe it was over, maybe the Joker had gotten tired of her, maybe he was going to go after Batman some other way. She found that hard to believe, but it was really the only thing she had to hope for, because the alternative was so terrifying. She looked away.

"You remember. I know you do, I can see it. Rachel—" He squeezed her hand, and she reluctantly met his gaze. "Who did it?"

Her lips twisted, a truth and a lie struggling with each other in her conscience. Finally, she gasped, "Mob," and collapsed back against the pillows, guilt consuming her. But she couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't let him know that she'd willingly bartered with his life, and in exchange for what? A bum witness? She wasn't sure what frightened her more: that the Joker might kill Bruce if she followed through with the deal, or that Bruce might stop loving her if he found out she had sacrificed his life without a second thought. Either way, he would be gone. She wasn't ready to give him up, and she was certain she never would be.

"The mob?" He looked away, the muscles in his jaw clenching in frustration. "Dammit. You're not going back to that apartment, Rachel. I don't care what you say; I'm not letting you get yourself killed because you're too proud to admit that you need my help."

She croaked, "Okay."

His eyebrows raised in surprise. "Really? You're not going to fight me?"

"Can't," she said, a weak, broken chuckle rattling in her throat. "Drugged."

He laughed, but his heart wasn't in it. Rachel realized with a pang that Bruce had not looked directly at her for more than a few seconds at a time. His eyes met hers, but only for a short moment, and then they inevitably focused on the gauze. There was something different in his eyes when he looked at her, and it frightened Rachel. She didn't have to worry about him finding out about her betrayal: she'd already lost him.

Would he even be able to look at her with her scars? She couldn't hold back the tears.

"Hey," he said gently. "It's all right."

"No," she muttered. Her cheeks grew hot, and for once she was grateful for the bandages: Bruce wouldn't be able to see her embarrassment. After all, how stupid was it of her to be worrying that she would be ugly when she could have _died_?

"No?"

She bit her lip, the pain chasing away the heavy fog that dulled her thoughts. "Scars." Rachel watched his expression from the corner of her eye.

He seemed to deflate, his shoulders slumping and his frown deepening. He'd been thinking about her scars, too. "What about them?"

Rachel kept her eyes carefully focused on the wall across the room from her bed. Through the darkness, she could barely make out a white board covered with indecipherable black writing. "I'll look—" _Ugly. Hideous. Like a monster._ "—different."

Bruce saw the direction of her thoughts, and his expression softened. His smile was pained. "Rachel." He turned her head gently, carefully avoiding the gauze. Brushing his fingertips lightly through her hair, he said, "You'll always be beautiful to me." He leaned over her, placing a soft kiss on her brow. Still positioned over her, he murmured, "You should get some sleep."

Rachel closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath, and nodded. Bruce brushed his hand over her forehead one last time, and she felt the bed spring back up as he settled back in his chair. He entwined his fingers with hers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

No. No, she hadn't lost him: he'd lost her. She'd pretended for so long that she was doing the right thing, that the Joker would come through with his promise, that she would put the mob behind bars, that she would be rewarded for her trust in the end. But no, it was all going wrong. He was changing her. He'd disfigured her, and she was _protecting him_. Without even realizing it, she was very slowly becoming just like him. What frightened her most was that part of her didn't even care.

&

Rachel drifted in and out of sleep for the next few hours, only staying conscious for a few minutes at a time. The pain medication they had her on left her feeling exhausted, groggy, and nauseous. Only when she remembered her lie, only when she wondered at what she'd become did her thoughts focus, and then only for a few terrible moments of clarity.

Bruce sat silently beside her, never once moving—not that she would know if he did. She could sense him glancing at her every few seconds, making sure she was still breathing, that she hadn't died. She wanted to tell him to get some sleep, but her mouth seemed to be hugely lagged behind her brain, and she was asleep before she could follow through.

Bright sunlight shone in through the window when Rachel woke to see the television turned on to the morning news report. Bruce watched the muted figures passively, his mind seemingly elsewhere. When she shifted, he turned to her and smiled. "Morning."

She tried to smile back, but her face was stiff and the skin pulled painfully. The drug-induced fog was still there, and it made her thoughts slow, constantly pulling her back to sleep. She hated to think what she would feel without the medication.

He watched her with concern, only settling back in his chair when her eyelids began drooping of their own accord.

Rachel was almost asleep again, when the tinny voice of a news reporter cut through the silence of the room. She opened her eyes, first looking to Bruce. The question forming on her lips died before she could voice it: Bruce was staring in tight-lipped horror at the television screen.

And she soon found out why.

"…found the body early this morning in front of an undisclosed apartment building. The man has been identified as Bruce Attwater. While at this time the police have named no suspects, our news station received a disturbing video this morning sent in by the man who appears to be the killer. We have it for you now."

The screen went black for a moment. Blackness gave way to static, and then the camera was twisting dizzyingly around to face the Joker. He gave them all a big smile, and Rachel's heart stopped.

"If you're playing this, then that means you've found the bodies and are looking for answers. Well, Gotham, there is only one person in this city who can stop me, and she knows who she is. That's you, princess. You know what you have to do, you know what I want, and I have complete, unwavering faith in you that you'll come through. Sorry about our little—" He broke off, the camera jiggling unsteadily as he tried to quiet his laugher. "—our little _tiff_. I feel bad about it now. If I apologize, would you start returning my calls?" He let out a short, mocking cackle, then said, "I suppose not. Oh. Speaking of phones—" The camera swung around and focused on the yellow pages of a phone book. The words were blurred and out of focus, but Rachel could see dark circles around some of the names. "I have this handy list here, so you can be sure that I will find what I'm looking for eventually, with or without your help. It's your choice. But time's ticking, princess."

The video ended, cutting him off mid-laugh, and the reporter appeared on the screen again, looking serious. "Police—and the citizens of Gotham—are asking the woman this man addresses in the video to step forward to help with the investigation."

But Rachel wasn't listening. She stared in utter horror at the television, her ears ringing strangely as her jumbled thoughts all tried to take control at once. _Bruce_. He was going after Bruce. He was going to kill every Bruce in the city until he found _her_ Bruce. She saw then what his intentions had been all along. The panic rose in her chest, choking her.

"Rachel?" Bruce's voice was quiet, dangerous. She didn't look at him, she couldn't. "Rachel, you're lying to me."

She snapped her eyes over to his. "What?"

His lips pressed together, and he stared her down. "You're lying. That was the man who did this to you, not someone from the mob."

"No—"

"Your scars, Rachel." She fell silent, staring back at him. "They're the same, or did you think that I wouldn't notice?" He settled back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I want the truth. What is going on?"

Rachel opened her mouth, closed it. She felt her skin flushing as her heart beat double-time. It wasn't something she was proud of, making a deal with a criminal. If only Bruce had never had to know. "He found out that I know Batman," she whispered. "That's why he went after me." It wasn't the complete truth, but it would be enough.

Bruce's arms dropped, and he stared at her. "No," he murmured brokenly. "Oh God, Rachel."

The guilt was almost too much. She watched him as his features contorted painfully with shame as he tried to confront his worst fear: that someone he loved was injured because of who he was. Rachel wasn't proud of hurting him like this, but she was certain that the alternative would be more damaging to both of them. If he thought for a second that she was willingly dealing with a murderer, he would leave her forever.

"It's all right, Bruce," she whispered.

"No, it's not." He ran a hand roughly through his hair. "Shit, Rachel. I never… I never should have put you in a position like that. I'm a _menace_. To think that you might have—" He couldn't meet her eyes. "—because of me. I would understand if—"

"Don't say that." She reached out for him, but he recoiled, his arms tight across his chest.

"It's true, Rachel. If I had just left you alone like you asked, this wouldn't be happening." He turned away from her, so she couldn't see his face. "_I_ did this to you. It's _my_ fault."

Rachel pressed her lips together tight, leaning over the bed railing to gently touch his arm. He was _crying_, silent tears glistening on his cheeks. Rachel brushed the tips of her fingers over his arm until he turned to look at her from the corner of his eye.

"I don't blame you." Rachel blamed herself. If she had just let the Joker be, if she hadn't saved him, Bruce wouldn't be in danger, and she wouldn't be in the hospital with hundreds of stitches in her face. It was all her fault. All her fault.

&

**Author's Note**: Sorry this is so much shorter than usual! With all the last minute preparations going on, I haven't had much time to sit down and write. So, I really hope this doesn't seem rushed. I wish I could have spent more time to develop this a bit better, since it's an important chapter, but I want to be able to get at least one more chapter posted before I leave for the unknown. So, this may or may not be my last post for a bit. If all goes as planned, I'll have another one up early early Sunday morning. Maybe in the afternoon. But that's if I write the chapter by then. So, um, if you don't hear from me for a while, I'm sorry! I'll try to keep you updated on progress through my profile, if I remember. So check there if you're wondering.

Anyway. Wow. You guys are so awesome. I've never gotten a response like I did on chapter seven. I feel so warm and fuzzy. ((: Once again, though, I'll be a bit late in replying to all your wonderful reviews, but it will get done, I promise. (: Love you all!

Also, Rachel's scars. Now, just because the Joker carved her up doesn't mean that she's going to be walking around with lumpy scars on her face for the rest of her life. The reason that the Joker's scars are so malformed is because he probably did nothing to care for them, they got infected, and well, that's just really bad news. But with actual doctors helping her, Rachel's scars will eventually fade into pale, faint lines (there's one actor that I know of who actually got a Glasgow smile, and you can barely tell). Well, anyway, sorry to all of you that weren't too happy with that. xb But I just couldn't see the Joker handling the situation in many other ways, other than just outright killing her. I always hate disappointing readers, because I feel like I have a lot to owe to you guys who take the time to review what I write. But this is one thing I'm pretty adamant about. I feel that if I'd given Rachel the easy way out, the Joker would have been completely out of character (the brutal violence being really one of the core parts of him), and it would have just spiraled from there. Hopefully you can still enjoy it though, haha.

And hope you liked chapter eight! :D


	9. Surprise

_Bruce Ayers._

_Bruce Dalton._

_Bruce Daniels._

_Bruce Hopkins._

_Bruce Joiner._

_Bruce Lawrence._

Bruce Wayne threw down the newspaper. "This has to stop."

Rachel couldn't bring herself to look too closely at the article. The Joker was getting closer. The body count was growing; the police had found five bodies the night before. All of them were smiling, even in death. Smiling just like her. She shuddered, looking away.

Bruce ran his hand roughly through his hair. "He wants me. If I—"

"No," Rachel interrupted. "It wouldn't stop him."

He looked over at her sharply. "Maybe not. But it might, too. And in the meantime, people are dying, and I'm sitting here doing _nothing._"

Rachel pressed her lips tightly together, a dull ache working its way up her wounds, her eyes looking anywhere but at the newspaper. "Bruce, you don't know what you're getting into."

"And you do?" he snapped. But immediately, he looked ashamed, rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, quieter. "This—it's just so frustrating. I have to do something about this, Rachel. If I don't, then these people are dying because of _me, _because I've _failed_."

Rachel met his gaze. "It's—" She wanted to say that it was only her fault, that it wasn't because of him that the Joker was angry, but she couldn't. "You're right," she said quietly, looking away.

He wasn't, of course. Which is why Rachel knew that she would have to find the Joker first, before Bruce could. She had to take care of the madman before he hurt someone she loved. And she had just the thing to do it.

&

Rachel stopped in front of the door to her apartment, sucking in a few deep, meant-to-be calming breaths. Burying her hands in the pockets of her coat, she curled her fingers around the smooth handle of the gun, hoping that that at least would make her feel safer, less vulnerable—this time she wouldn't be facing the Joker alone. It didn't help.

Bruce wouldn't dirty his hands with anyone's blood, but Rachel could. Normally, she had a narrower interpretation of justice than even Bruce; she looked down on violence, on people following one of the basest urges, but she was willing to make an exception for the Joker. Just this once. Gotham needed Bruce to be Batman, a pure, incorruptible superhuman, and Rachel understood that. And she was willing to bear the burden of the Joker's murder on her shoulders.

She refused to admit to herself just how much of her sudden willingness to kill was fueled purely by her desire for revenge.

There was no way that she could know where to find him, but something told her that he would meet her on familiar turf, back in a place they both knew well. It would be poetic for them to settle their deal in the same place they sealed it with a handshake, and Rachel knew that the Joker went for the poetic irony.

Steadying herself one last time, she turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

The room was dark and the air was close, as she would have expected. What she didn't expect was to see two bodies lying lengthwise on the floor of her hallway. Rachel staggered back, bumping her shoulder into the doorjamb.

"You made it." The Joker stepped out of dark shadows, spreading his arms and giving her a viciously warm smile. "I was beginning to think that you were holding a grudge." Every step he took made the warning bells in her head ring louder. He was a feral animal, stalking his kill. "No hard feelings, then?" Taking her by the hand, he pulled her into the room and kicked the door closed behind her.

Rachel jumped, the resounding slam pulling her out of her terrified haze. She backed away, realizing too late that with the door closed, there was no easy way out. He had her boxed in. _Trapped._ She took a quick step to the side, anxious to get some distance between them, but he followed her, mirroring each panicked step she took.

"Let's get a better look at you. I haven't seen you since…" The Joker trailed off, lips parting in a wide grin. He reached forward, gripping her chin before she could flinch away. "Come on," he muttered under his breath as he tried to keep a hold on her. Finally, he just shoved her against the door, so she couldn't move away. "Ah," he breathed. "Yes." He brushed his fingers roughly over her still-healing scars, the rough pads of his fingers catching on the tender flesh. "You're even more beautiful with the scars."

Rachel tugged her head away, her hand creeping into her pocket. She clenched her jaw, her scars aching dully. _Now_. She had to do it now, before she lost her nerve—if she'd ever found it in the first place. The handle of the gun was warm in her hand, heavy.

The Joker's eyes searched her face hungrily, as if he could read her thoughts as they passed through her mind. But he obviously couldn't, because he leaned forward quickly and caught her lips in a rough kiss.

Rachel flinched back, her head slamming into the door behind her.

He roared with laugher, backing off and turning away from her suddenly. "I'm glad you came, princess."

"I'm not here to play your games," Rachel growled, watching him warily.

The Joker paused, looked at her over his shoulder. His smile had lost its edge of amusement, and was instead completely vicious. He didn't say anything, waiting for her to make the next move.

"The deal's off."

He regarded her skeptically. "You said that last time, and _see_ where that got you?"

"I mean it this time, Joker." Her hand tensed, but she kept the gun in her pocket. "You never fulfilled your half of the deal, so I'm not obligated to carry through with mine."

His voice was soft, dangerous. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

"I'm accusing you of never having any intention of helping me at all. Maroni's back on the streets, thanks to _your_ witness."

He squinted his eyes at her. "Don't blame me for your shitty prosecution."

Rachel gaped at him, outraged. "_Shitty—_?"

"Don't deny it. I gave you everything you needed—he was Maroni's right-hand man, for fuck's sake." The Joker stalked closer to her, his eyes dark with frustration. "You can't blame _me_ for how you handled the jewel I gave you. That was _your_ fault. You had your chance. Now give me mine. I want to meet the Batman."

Rachel snapped, "I won't—"

But the Joker slapped her hard across the face, knuckles slamming painfully into her wound. His eyes were pure hatred.

Rachel staggered, crying out in strangled anguish, blinded for a moment by the agonizing pain that shot through her body. But she wouldn't let him beat her down twice. Whipping her hand out of her pocket, she aimed the gun at the Joker. Her hand only shook a little.

The Joker froze, his hands snapping into the air in defeat. But he was still smiling. He was enjoying this.

Rachel held her aching cheek in one hand as she straightened up, using the wall for support. "Fine," she rasped. "I was going to give you one last chance, just like you did for me. I was going to let you live if you agreed to leave Batman alone. But I can see that you'll never let this go. So, I'm going—" She hated how her throat caught, how she choked. It only made her look weak and scared. "I'm going to kill you."

The Joker remained perfectly still for a few seconds. But then his mouth twisted, like he was trying to hold back his smile, and he failed. His shoulders shook, a gleeful chuckle quickly escalating into whooping laughter. "All right," he said through his convulsions. "Do it."

Rachel stared at him with wide eyes, the gun dropping ever so slightly.

He grinned, licking his lips. Sauntering forward, he walked until the barrel of the gun jabbed into his chest. When Rachel tried drawing it away, completely unsure as of what to think, he gripped her wrist in a strong hand, his fingers digging into bone. Slowly, he pulled the gun towards him, until it pressed heard against his forehead. "Shoot me." His eyes bored into hers, and she realized that maybe he saw more in her eyes than she'd assumed. "Going to make Batman proud? Is he sending out people to do his dirty work now, so that he can keep his… _pristine_ _reputation_?" he spat. His fingers pressed against her trigger-finger, forcing back the thin piece of metal. "Or, maybe you just love the way it feels, being in control for once. Hm?"

"No," Rachel said, her voice strained. "I'm going to shoot you because it's fair. For all those lives you've taken, for all the pain you've caused. For making me into a _monster_."

The Joker grinned lecherously. "An eye for an eye. I _like_ it." He pressed the gun further into his forehead, eyes closing in pleasure. In a raspy growl, he said, "_Punish me, princess._"

He _wanted_ to die. Rachel hesitated, recoiling. She wanted him to beg, she wanted him to feel pain before she murdered him, she wanted to make him pay—and he was not cooperating. That someone could welcome death with such open arms frightened Rachel more than anything.

She tried to jerk the gun away from him, but he held it tighter against his head. His hands crushed hers into the smooth metal, his fingers never allowing her to ease up her grip on the trigger. The panic rose and clouded her mind, even though she was at the other end of the weapon.

"You can't do it," he said, cackling. "You can't kill me." He shoved her into the wall in disgust, ripping the gun out of her hands. "Honestly, princess, I'm disappointed in you. I ought to teach you a lesson." He advanced towards her and pressed the gun against her forehead. Rachel cringed away, hating how her legs shook tremulously, how her whole body convulsed.

When he took the gun away, Rachel sucked in a terrified gasp of air. When she heard the violent report of the bullet, that breath of air whooshed out of her, as if he'd kicked her in the stomach. She was alive, but… Rachel could see the growing pool of dark-black blood expanding out from beneath one of the hostages. Blood on her hands.

"No," she wheezed. "Oh God." The man's eyes were blank, staring back at her, unseeing.

The Joker pointed the gun at the other hostage, never taking his eyes from her, the grin never leaving his face. She saw his gloved hand tighten on the trigger—

"_Wait._"

The Joker paused, never loosening his grip.

Rachel looked away, defeated. "All right," she murmured brokenly. "All right. I'll take you to Batman. Please, just… please, don't kill him."

The Joker smiled widely at her. "See? That wasn't so hard." He reached down and tugged her to her feet, spinning her to face the door.

"What are you doing?" Rachel tried to turn around to face him, but he gripped her tightly by the back of her neck, the gun pressing into her spine.

"Going to meet the Batman," he said cheerily. "No time like the present."

&

At her car, the Joker searched through her pockets until he found her keys. "After you," he said, shoving her into the passenger-side seat. He climbed eagerly behind the wheel, grinning at her slowly before he started the car. "Which way?"

Rachel curled into the door, leaning her head against the window, always keeping the Joker within view. "Take a left at the next light."

The Joker slammed on the gas, and the car leapt forward, front tire scraping jarringly against the curb before he veered out into the narrow street. Rachel couldn't help but notice that he held the gun in one hand even as he drove.

She'd failed. Rather than giving Bruce some time, maybe saving him from ever having to deal with this madman, she was leading the Joker straight to him.

The Joker made the next turn without her even saying a word. Over the engine's growl, he said, "I can't wait to finally meet the famous Bruce Wayne."

Rachel's heart stopped. She turned very slowly to face him, trying not to let the terror show in her face and failing miserably. _Bruce Wayne_. "What?" she whispered, her voice squeaking unsteadily.

He mocked chagrin. "Oops! That was supposed to be a surprise."

He _knew_, he knew which Bruce he was after, and yet he'd still gone after all those others, all those innocents.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before finally saying, "How—?"

"How did I know?" He turned to her, giving her a pitying stare. "_Please_. You'd have to be brain-dead to not reach that conclusion. It's in all the papers: _Billionaire Playboy Has Private Sessions with Assistant DA._" He snickered. "I must say, you two do make quite a pair, but with your new makeover, princess, I'd say that you're just too pretty for him."

Hate burned deep in her chest, destructive heat. "If you knew who Batman was all along, why the hell did you do _this_ to me?" she snapped, seething.

"You can only improve a face like yours, princess." He slammed on the breaks before she could fully absorb his words. The headlights glinted off the tall iron gates. He pulled up to the call box, pressed the gun to her stomach. "Get us in."

Rachel stared him down for a moment, but he reached out the car window, and pressed his finger hard against the buzzer.

After a few seconds of silence, a voice crackled from the speakers. "Rachel?" It was Bruce. He sounded pretty pissed.

She leaned over the Joker, out the driver's window. He placed a steadying hand on her back, and Rachel did nothing to suppress the shudder of disgust. "Yeah."

The speaker went silent, and the gates opened slowly.

The Joker chuckled quietly. "Well, that was easier than I'd hoped."

&

Alfred met them at the front door. "Rachel, where have you—" His scolding question died on his lips when he saw the man that followed her up the steps. He jaw dropped in surprise, and he fell back a few steps, letting them inside.

"Alfred," she pleaded, without knowing exactly what she would say next. _I'm sorry?_ That wouldn't come even close to making up for the pain she was bringing to their doorstep. "I can explain."

"Ah, ah," the Joker said, pressing the gun into her back. "We don't have that much time. See, I'm in a _bit_ of a hurry." Locking gazes with Alfred, he said in a sickly sweet voice, "Where's Batman?"

Rachel bit her lip, looked away from Alfred's shocked face. She didn't want to know what he would think of her, if he ever found out the whole truth.

Alfred sputtered, never looking away from the Joker's terrifying war paint. Finally, though, when the Joker cocked the gun and held it to Rachel's head, Alfred said, "In his study." The Joker lowered the gun, and Alfred visibly relaxed, although the terror never left him. "He's waiting for you in his study, Miss Dawes."

Rachel murmured, "I'm sorry, Alfred," but the Joker shoved her forward, and she was only able to look back at him one last time before she had to keep an eye on her feet as they walked up the stairs.

Her dread grew as they approached the study door. She could see a faint line of light peering from beneath the thick wood. Bruce was in there, unprotected, unprepared, completely vulnerable, and it was all her fault. If she'd just _listened_ to him, he could have prepared for this.

She could feel the Joker's excitement growing from the way he handled her: the closer they got to his prize, the rougher he got with her, almost shoving her to the ground several times, only to drag her back up before she could fall. When they stood in front of the door, he couldn't suppress his giggles any longer.

But as soon as Rachel knocked on the dark wood, the Joker went silent.

"Come in."

Rachel closed her eyes, wishing her hardest that Bruce would somehow magically develop psychic skills, so she could warn him. But she knew that magic didn't exist.

Bruce was standing over his desk, back towards her, hands planted on the table firmly. His back was tense through his dress shirt: he was angry at her, and she couldn't blame him. He looked so defenseless without his armor to protect him.

When the Joker closed the door quietly behind them, Bruce said, "I can't believe you, Rachel."

Rachel watched in tense silence as the Joker stalked forward, pulling a knife out of his coat pocket. Pausing a short distance away from Bruce, the Joker finally let loose one of his shrill, growing giggles. Bruce spun around, staggering against the table for a moment.

"Surprise!" And he slammed his fist into the side of Bruce's head, knocking him to the ground.

&

**Author's Note**: Sorry if this chapter seems rushed, because it is. I just really wanted to get this up before I leave. Last day at home yesterday, packing. We fly up today, and then I will have an unknown amount of computer time for a while. So, this may be the last post for a bit, although maybe maybe maybe I'll get one done by the end of the week. It depends on when I get my new computer and what exactly they have us do up there. So, this chapter hasn't been completely corrected, and I probably would have done some more tweaking, but I figured that I should get something up before leaving for an indeterminate amount of time. (I might do some edits, actually, when it's not really really late.)

I will respond to your reviews from the previous two chapters! I will! I will! (Oh man, this college business gets in the way of so many things!)

Hope you can still enjoy this chapter, despite the rushed quality. (: Tell me what you think!


	10. Monster

**Author's Note**: Wow, that was a lot longer of an absence than I'd intended. So so sorry about that! ): I'll spare you the excuses until the end of the chapter, because we all know that you're more interested in the story than in what I have to say—and rightly so. So, I really, really hope that you enjoy! Thanks for being so patient!

&&&

Bruce almost caught himself—almost. But the impact was too unexpected, the blow too violent for him to be able to recover completely, and Rachel heard his skull crack audibly against the wooden floor.

She felt his pain in her bones. "Bruce!"

"Ah ah ah." The Joker punctuated his warning with the click of the gun's safety. Rachel froze, her muscles seizing up, her thoughts instinctual, basic; Bruce lay still on the floor, unmoving. "I just want to talk, that's all." His voice was carefully casual, but the gleam in his eyes said otherwise. He held her gaze for a long moment, his scarred lips curling up into a hungry smile. He'd won, and he was relishing his dominance. "Now, I think we can all be adults about this, right, princess?"

Bruce grunted from his prone position on the floor, and Rachel tore her gaze away from the Joker. The fear was visible in his eyes, and the fact that she knew for certain that he was not at all afraid for his own safety—only hers—hurt her worse than anything. His lips pressed tightly together, his jaw clenched, and Rachel could almost hear what he was thinking: _Run_.

But she would stay. She would find a way to get Bruce out of this nightmare she created, even if it meant that she would be caught by a monster.

Never letting the gun stray away from her, the Joker approached Bruce slowly, his scarlet grin growing wider and wider with every step. With the toe of his shoe, he flipped Bruce onto his back. Bending over him, the Joker said, "You look different from your pictures. Paparazzi really know how to choose the flattering angle, don't they?" He laughed, his red tongue darting out and wetting his lips. "Although, really, I think no angle flatters you more than you lying prone on the floor."

Something snapped behind his eyes, and Bruce surged up.

_Bang!_

The gunshot split through the silence of the study, the sound shattering Rachel to pieces. A high keening noise strangled her, different pitches struggling to escape her at the same time and leaving her breathless. Splinters from the door behind her bounced harmlessly off her legs.

"Were you not listening?" the Joker said, his voice the same, maddening calm as before. His gun arm held steadily in her direction, he lowered himself to his knees, straddling Bruce, knees hugging tight to his waist. "I just want to talk. I don't know why you're making this so difficult, Batsy."

"_Get off of me_," Bruce growled.

But the Joker planted a firm hand in the center of Bruce's chest and glanced briefly but significantly over to where Rachel stood trembling. He watched Bruce's eyes follow his line of sight, watched the way his face changed when he saw just how vulnerable and fragile she was, and he grinned. Slowly, he inched his hand up Bruce's chest, until his gloved fingers brushed against Bruce's cheek. "I've been waiting for this moment for ages. Literally, ages. You should feel honored, Batman, to have held my interest for so long."

"You sick—"

"Ah ah." The Joker lazily waved his weapon. "One more peep out of you and my aim won't be so bad next time."

Bruce settled back, reluctant, and looked over at her to meet her eyes—or he would have, if she could have brought herself to look at him.

"There are so many things that could have gone wrong, gotten in the way of our—" He paused, not searching for the right words—he knew exactly what he was going to say—but to make sure he didn't miss a single second of Batman's outraged convulsions. He wanted to savor this moment. "—_consummating_ this bond of ours. In fact, if it hadn't been for princess's help, I don't think we would have ever met." He ran a hand roughly down the length of Bruce's cheek, hungrily drinking up Batman's anger. "Wouldn't that have been a shame?"

But Bruce was caught on one word. "Help?" His eyes entreated her, and she wished that she could tell him what he wanted to hear. But then she would be lying, and she'd done more than enough of that for a lifetime.

"Please," she said breathlessly. The only way she could escape from the budding horror in Bruce's eyes was by closing her eyes. "Please. Don't."

"What help, Rachel?" His voice sounded weak and vulnerable and it _cut _her. After she'd been so _careful_, after all those years of keeping Bruce's _innocence_, she'd destroyed it in one heartbeat, delivered the worst possible blow to his faith. She wasn't ready for him to realize just how wrong he'd been all along about the people he was trying to save, about her.

The Joker leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Bruce's. In a criminally innocent voice, he said, "You mean she didn't _tell_ you?" He turned towards her, his voice completely incongruous with his words. "Naughty, naughty girl, princess. What have I told you about lying? But," he sighed, "I guess it's too late now. He's found us out. We may as well tell him the truth."

"No," she snapped, fear making her stupid. "This wasn't part of our—" She caught herself, biting her lip. As if she weren't damned enough already. The look Bruce was giving her told her that there was no going back ever. She had made her choice a long time ago, and no amount of regret could change that.

The Joker was practically crowing. He grabbed Bruce's chin in a tight grip and forced him to look up into his eyes. "Do you want the truth, Batsy? Do you want to know what your princess does without your oh-so-good influence?" He tugged hard on Bruce's face, forcing him to nod, although Bruce stared back in tight-lipped hatred.

"She led me to you."

"You're lying," Bruce snapped. But that was all he said.

He leaned forward, holding Bruce's head in place, close enough that he was certain Batman would feel every word. "She sold you. To me." He let this sink in for a moment, a giggle rising in his throat when Bruce eventually had to look away. "She agreed to sacrifice your life if I could get her a mob boss to confess for her trial." The smile never left his lips. He furrowed his brow in mock concern. "How does that make you feel, that she values the life of a criminal over your own, her oldest friend? Hm? Would you like to talk about it?"

She wanted Bruce to defend her honor, she wanted him to come back with a passionate argument in favor of her virtue, even though she knew that she didn't deserve it.

He didn't. His silence hurt her more than her slowly healing scars; even Bruce realized that she didn't deserve his kindness. Tears burned her eyes, a sob constricted her throat. She felt like an idiot. She'd brought all this on herself; she didn't deserve to feel sorry for herself.

The Joker lowered the gun; no one was going to fight him, not now. "There's no winning," he murmured, "so why even try? Give up. You can't tell me that you haven't been thirsting for a taste of _anarchy_."

Her voice sounded more together than she felt. "Why are you doing this?"

The Joker jerked his eyes over to her, as if he'd forgotten for a moment that she was still in the room. As he regarded her for a long moment, a lazy smile passed over his mouth. "Because, princess." He licked his lips, voice sickly sweet. "I wanted to break you. I wanted you to betray Batman of your own free will. I wanted you to realize that you aren't as _just_ and as _perfect_ as you pretend to be. I wanted you to take a cold, hard look at the side of yourself that you refuse to admit exists." He grinned wide. "_Know thyself_."

Her stomach twisted, all sound muting and colors dimming, everything but her disgust and horror fading to insignificance. She should have known. She should have seen it. She should have—

"Aw, don't give me that look, princess. It _breaks _my_ heart_." He punctuated his words with impassioned blows to Bruce's chest with his gun hand.

Rachel's hands flew up to her mouth, her eyes wide open and watching the loaded gun with mute horror. It was so _close_ to his head—just one twitch of a muscle, and he would—

"Why so serious?" Smirking, the Joker tossed the gun away into the shadowed corners of the room, and with the same movement reached inside his coat pocket and took out his knife. "Better?" he said, handling the blade easily. "We don't need guns, do we, Batsy? Guns are so impersonal. We know each other _better_ than _that_." Holding Bruce's head still with one hand, he ran the flat of the knife over his cheeks, the blade just barely biting into the skin. His voice dark, he murmured, "And I would _so _enjoy getting to know you better."

Hazy memories of That Night swirled in front of Rachel's vision; her scars burned like acid. She couldn't let that happen to Bruce, she couldn't let the Joker destroy him like that. "Joker," she said, as forcefully as she could manage. He didn't even bother looking up, but the blade paused in Bruce's mouth. "Maybe we can make a deal."

At this, he looked over. Raising an eyebrow, he said, "_Another_ deal? My, my, my, princess, you really do like playing with fire, don't you? You see how your last deal worked out. What will you lose this time, hm?"

"I don't have anything left to lose," she said bitterly, locking eyes. And this was true: she'd lost Bruce, she'd lost his trust, she'd lost her dignity.

He smiled dismissively at her. "Oh, I'm sure I can find something." He pressed the knife into the corner of Bruce's mouth. "There's always something."

But taking advantage of his distraction, Bruce caught the Joker's wrists and, with one heave, threw him to the floor. Rachel gasped, taking a few stumbling steps backwards, her back pressing against the heavy door. The knife flashed in the dim lamplight, and Bruce grunted in pain. With a loud _thunk_, he slammed the Joker to the floor, jamming his shoulders hard into the ground.

The Joker barked, a coughing laugh, grinned up at him. "No hard feelings?"

Bruce's face contorted in fury, and he slammed his fist into the Joker's jaw. When the Joker tried sitting up, Bruce gripped the man's face in his hand and ground him into the floor, leaning all his weight on his arm.

But he couldn't stop the laughter. Nothing could stop the laughter.

He pushed himself up suddenly, jumping back as if he'd been burned, clutching his side. Purposefully looking anywhere but her, Bruce stumbled to his desk, grabbing the phone with bloody hands. His chest was heaving, his breath labored. Pure hate burned in his eyes as he stared the Joker down.

"I'll take this as my cue to exit," the Joker said, rubbing his jaw. He grunted, tipping to the side as he tried to stand. "Not that the cops scare me. I just—" He broke off, laughing. "This was fun, Bats. We will do this again. Soon." When Bruce proved to be an unmovable statue, the Joker gave him one last lecherous grin and sauntered towards the door.

As he passed her, he reached his hand out, brushing his fingertips against her waist, drawing them over her stomach. Rachel recoiled from him, feeling sick and tainted. His laughter echoed down the hallway.

Bruce slammed the phone back into its cradle, breaking Rachel's paralysis. Her heart set off again, pounding painfully fast in her chest. He was injured, but what scared her most was that he'd finally seen her for what she really was. She ventured quietly, "Bruce?"

He didn't answer, leaning his head against his desk, turning away from her. Crossing the room in a few tentative steps, she reached out to touch his shoulder, but he flinched away. "Don't touch me."

Rachel stepped back, clutching her hand to her chest. The silence pressed down on her. Finally, faintly, she whispered, "I'm sorry—"

"Sorry?" Bruce spat. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Rachel." He ran a bloodied hand through his hair roughly. When he met her gaze, his eyes were dark, bitter, venomous. "You revealed my identity to my most dangerous enemy. Don't you _get it_? I wear this mask to _protect you_. And you—" He slammed his hand down in frustration, rubbing it angrily over his face. "Just—just get out. I can't talk to you right now."

She hesitated, unsure, wanting to make things better somehow but she didn't know _how_.

Bruce turned the full force of his anger on her. "What are you waiting for?" he growled. "Get _out_. _Go!_"

Rachel stumbled back, driven by the sheer force of his words. Pausing in the doorway, she stared back one last time, even though she knew she shouldn't. He didn't look at her, didn't move, his stiff back immobile and pained.

Her ears filled with white noise, her feet slammed down onto the ground with mechanical regularity and she was running, running, running, her mind as empty as a void. She didn't even process falling, kicking off her high-heels, didn't even feel the gravel of the driveway digging into the soft soles of her feet. She was running, running, running from the monster she'd become.

&&&

**Author's Note**: Excuses, excuses, excuses. School has me crazy busy a lot of the time, and the fact that now I have a social life to balance on top of all of that (it's hard not to when you live with people your age) means much, much less writing time. But the end of the semester is fast approaching, which means I'll have a really long break coming up, so hopefully I'll be able to make good headway on this story over the next few weeks. Maybe I'll even be able to finish it! That would be amazing!

I need you to be tough on me. If there are any inconsistencies that you see, don't hesitate to call me out. It's been a while, and even though I read through the story, I can't promise to catch everything. I'm really really anxious that I wasn't able to keep them all in character, so I'd like your opinions on that. I'll be seeing the movie again December ninth, for sure, so at least I'll be able to brush up on their characters again then.

I'm steeling myself to the fact that probably some of my readers have dropped off (my fault, for making you all wait so ridiculously long). Those of you who are still reading, I really hope you enjoy this! Your support has pushed me to aim at actually finishing this story. I can't let you down! I won't! I won't! I really really hope you enjoyed this, and I hope that this at least sort of makes up for how long you've had to wait!


	11. Guilt

**Author's Note**: Grovel grovel grovel! I hope you can forgive me for taking so long on this chapter! More groveling at the end of the chapter. Thanks for your continued support!

&&&_  
Four Months Later_  
&&&

Rachel was forgetting him. It had only been a few months since she'd last seen Bruce, but already she had forgotten what color his eyes were, the way he glanced sidelong at her, the sound of his laughter. Any memories she still had of him were vague feelings, moments lost in time that she clung to with desperate need. These memories weren't without pain; there was very little happiness that came with them, because these were the ones that reminded her of what she'd caused herself to lose. She only had herself to blame.

But without hesitation, she slid back into her safe haven of the constructed past. She could feel his phantom hands caressing her cheeks, sliding down her sides in a maddeningly slow descent that sent painful, lustful shivers up her arms.

It was so real that she could almost pretend he was still there, speaking to her in low, indistinct words, holding her in his arms. If there was one thing she hadn't forgotten, it was how he said her name.

"Rachel."

She laid her head against his shoulder, shutting her eyes tight and trying to _remember_. Her palm rested against his cheek, and she could feel the soft, pillowed ridges and valleys of—

Rachel opened her eyes wide. The Joker stared back at her, smiling. He reached his hand out, tracing one side of her own never-ending grin. Slowly, so that she wouldn't be able to pretend she hadn't heard, he pronounced, "Just like me."

"Rachel." A warm hand closed over her shoulder, and Rachel jerked up, gasping. The first thing she noticed after her mind had reoriented back into reality was her chill hand on her cheek. _She was that monster_.

It was another minute before she realized that the loud, hitching sobs were her own.

"Rachel?" Harvey's concerned face swam into view. He reached up to cup his hand around hers, his warm fingers brushing the spidery lines of her scars, but Rachel pushed him away violently. Both her hands cradled her cheeks gently now, as if she could somehow hide that part of herself she couldn't face.

Harvey gripped her shoulders, his warmth seeping through her wrinkled blouse. "Rachel?" he said, just as slowly as the Joker. "Are you all right?"

She finally really met his eyes—and the dark reality of her other self subsided. Another sob left her gasping, shaking, and the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Oh, Rachel," Harvey murmured and pulled her to him, wrapping her in a warm, safe embrace.

Rachel tried relaxing, imagining that she was in Bruce's arms, that everything was all right, that he had forgiven her. But Harvey's soft words slowly morphed and decayed into the harsh laughter of the Joker. She took a few deep breaths; she had to stay in reality.

"You haven't been sleeping," Harvey said suddenly. When she was silent, he added, "I always feel you get up in the middle of the night, and you never come back to bed."

Rachel closed her eyes, suddenly consumed with guilt. She hadn't known that he noticed her absence. She'd thought that she was timing it just right, leaving only when he was deep asleep. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "I just—I keep having nightmares."

Harvey drew her closer, as if he believed that his simple nearness could chase away the demons. Rachel balled her fists in his suit and tried as hard as she could to believe along with him.

After a moment, Harvey pulled away and looked down at her, serious. "Take the rest of the day off."

"Harvey, no. I still have—"

He ran a thumb gently across her cheek; Rachel sucked in a jarred gasp. Harvey smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry about the case. I can take care of it."

Rachel met his gaze, helpless. Ever since That Night, the last night she had seen both Bruce and the Joker, she had thrown herself with unhealthy vigor into her work. As long as she kept herself busy, she was able to stay sane. Idle hands beget the Joker's work. But she was long past the point of no return.

Harvey watched her think with alert, almost wary, eyes. When the silence had grown uncomfortable and stale, he sighed and leaned his forehead against hers. "I'm really worried about you, Rachel," he said. Then, softer, "Why won't you tell me what's wrong? Maybe I can help."

Rachel bit her lip. She knew exactly what she had to say to appease him, at least for a time, and she hated herself for that. What had she become, that lying was so easy and so necessary? She never spoke the truth any longer. Rachel leaned up and kissed him. "You are helping," she murmured.

The relief was obvious on his face. He pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. "I love you, Rachel."

There was an undercurrent of meaning rushing beneath those words, and Rachel allowed herself to be dragged under without a fight. _I love you; I would never leave you like that bastard Wayne. I love you; I would never even think of hurting you like the Joker. I love you; the scars will fade. I love you; don't you trust me?_

_I love you; why can't you love me?_

Rachel had a hard time catching her breath. The guilt worked from the inside, forcefully pressing all the air from her lungs. Harvey had shown her nothing but kindness, taking her in after That Night, never asking her any questions, never pressuring her for answers or for commitment. She knew he saw the way her face contorted anxiously with every infrequent news report about Batman, the way she looked at herself in the mirror like she was looking at someone else, but he never asked why. He was so _patient_ with her. He knew exactly when she needed space, when she needed to be close to someone, and he gave her everything.

How hard would it be to humor him, to tell him what he wanted to hear? She was so good at lying, after all.

But no. She couldn't hurt him like that. Harvey was too good a man for her, too kind, too forgiving. He deserved so much better.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Harvey's face fell. It took him a moment to hide his disappointment, but he smiled thinly at her. "It's all right. You have nothing to—"

"I'm sorry," she said, more firmly. Then, so quiet he had to lean in to hear her, "I'm a monster."

&&&

By the time the taxi pulled up in front of their apartment complex, Rachel was completely drained. She trudged up the stairs, taking one step at a time, focusing on her straining muscles and the rhythm of her breaths so she couldn't feel the guilt. She fumbled the key into the lock, but the door swung open at her first touch.

Her heart stopped.

They'd locked the door when they left that morning, she was sure of it. In a city like Gotham, you couldn't afford to be careless, no matter what neighborhood you might live in.

She hesitated at the door. It was silent inside. She should call the cops. There could be someone waiting in there for her—

Rachel's breath hitched in her throat. What if it was Bruce? What if Bruce had come back to her?

She pushed the door open, not allowing herself to think past the immediate joy that flooded through her body. An exuberant sigh escaped her lips, "_Bru—_"

But she cut herself short, staring around the apartment in complete shock. All the curtains were drawn, the only light in the dim room coming from small, flickering, blood-red candles placed on every surface.

"Hello, princess."

Rachel nearly collapsed, her knees going instinctively weak. She fell hard into the wall, bracing herself against it. The searing pain in her cheeks almost threatened to drag her under. She licked her lips hesitantly as her mind rushed with pure, white noise.

The Joker's smiled widened impossibly. "I made you some soup."

&&&

**Author's Note**: Grovel grovel grovel grovel grovel grovel grovel! Life has been completely crazy these past eight (whaaat?! oh god, it's been way too long!) months, which unfortunately means that fanfiction was on the backburner. That, and I wasn't sure how to continue this exactly; I had no idea what road I wanted to take this story down. Now, though, I have a much better idea, and I'm very pleased with the interesting direction this will be going. I will do my best to keep this a manageable length, because, well, my life will continue to be more than a little crazy for the foreseeable future (I'll write a bit more about that in my profile, if you're interested. I just like talking about myself, so feel free to ignore it).  
Thanks SO MUCH to those of you who have continued giving this story much, much appreciated support. If it weren't for those of you out there in the peanut gallery, I probably wouldn't find the time and motivation to put the rest of this down on (electronic) paper. Stay with me! Hopefully from now on I will be able to devote the time to responding to all of your kind words. An equally grateful thanks to those of you who have somehow found this story in the months of hiatus. I don't know how you do it, but your unexpected reviews added just enough guilt to push me into high-gear. Thank you!  
The next chapter (which was originally part of this one) has already been started. I will try to get it finished within the next week. Thanks so much!


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